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TENNYSON 




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AUTHOR AND CHARACTERS OF THE " IDYI.S OF THE KING."-By Gustave Dor* 



WORKS 




ALFRliD TENNYSON.— From Ihe pliotogrnph by Mrs. Cameron 



/ 

THE 



COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 



rOET LAUREATE 



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af'jift.i.^g^gv 









TENNYSON'S BIRTH-PLACE, LINCOLNSHIRE 



WITH AN INTRODUCTORY SKETCH BY ANNE THACKERA Y RITCHIE 



Jlliistratcb 



J- / 



■-D 



NEW YORK 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 

FRANKLIN SQUARE 
1884 



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T^^.eV^ 




Copyright, 1S84, by Harpf.r & Brothers. 



ALFRED TFNNYSON. 

BY 

ANNE THACKERAY RITCHIE. 

[Reprinted from Harper's Magazine for December, 1SS3.] 



There is a place called SomersLy in Liii- 
colushire, where an old white rectory stands 
on the slope of a hill, and the winding lanes 
are shadowed by tall ashes and elm-trees, j 
and where two brooks meet at the bottom 
of the glebe field. It is a place far away 
from us iu silence' aud in distance, lying 
npou the " ridged wolds." They bonnd the 
liorizon of the'rectory garden, whence they 
are to be seen flowing to meet the sky. I 
have never known Somersby, bnt I have 
often heard it described, aud the pastoral 
country all about, and the quiet, scattered 
homes. One can picture the rectory to oue's 
self with something of a monastic sweetness 
and quiet ; an ancient Norman cross is stand- 
ing in the churchyard, ami perhaps there is 
still a sound in the air of the bleating of 
flocks. It all comes before one as one reads 
the sketch of Tennyson's uative place iu the 
Homes and Haunts of the British Poets : the 
village not far from the fens, "in a pretty 
pastoral district of softly sloping hills and 
large ash-trees, . . . the little glen iu the 
neighborhood, called by tbe olil monkish 
name of Holywell." Mr. Teuuyson some- 
times speaks of this glen, which he remem- 
bers white with snowdrops iu the season; 
and who will uot recall the exiiuisite invo- 
cation : 



" Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side, 
The seven ehns, the pophirs four 
Tli:>t stand be!^ide my father's door, 
And chiefly from the brooli that loves 
To pnrl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, 
Or dimple in the darli of rushy coves. . . . 

O ! hither lead tby feet 1 
Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat 
Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds, 

Upon the ridged wolds." 

The wind that goes blowing where it 
listeth, once, in the early beginning of this 
century, came sweeping throtigh the gar- 
den of this old Lincolnshire rectcny, aud, as 
the wind blew, a sturdy child of five years 
old with shining locks stood opening his 
arms upon the bhist and letting himself be 
blown along, and as he travelled on he made 
his first line of jtoetry and said, " I hear a 
voice that's speaking iu the wind," and he 



tossed his arms, and the gust whirled ou, 
SAveeping into the great abyss of winds. 
One might, perhaps, still trace in the noble 
familiar face of our Poet Laureate the feat- 
ures of this child, one of many deep-eyed 
sons and daughters born iu the quiet rec- 
tory among the elm-trees. 

Alfred Tennyson was born on the 6th of 
August, 1809. He has heard many aud many 
a voice calling to him since the time when 
he listened to the wind as he played alone 
iu his father's garden, or joined the other 
children at their games aud jousts. They 
were a noble little clan of poets and of 
knights, coming of a knightly race, with 
castles to defend, with mimic tournaments 
to fight. Somersby was so far away from 
the world, so behindhand iu its echoes 
( which must have come there softened 
through all manner of green and tranquil 
things, and, as it were, hushed into pastoral 
silence), that though the early part of the 
century was stirring with the clang of le- 
gions, jfew of its rumors seem to have reached 
the children. They never heard, at the time, 
of the battle of Waterloo. Tliey grew up 
together, playing their own games, liviug 
their own life ; aud where is such life to be 
fonnd as that of a happy, eager family of 
1 boys and girls, before Doubt, the steps of 
Time, the shocks of Chance, tlie blows of 
Death, have come to shake their creed? 
I These haudsome children had beyond 
most children that wondrous toy at their 
commaiul which some people call imagina- 
tion. The boys played great games like 
Arthur's knights ; they were champions and 
warriors defending a stone heap, or again 
they would set up opposing camps with a 
king in the midst of each. The king was a 
willow wand stuck into the ground, with an 
outer circle of innnortals to defend him of 
firmer, stifier sticks. Then each party would 
come with stones, hurling at each other's 
king, and trying to overthrow him. Per- 
haps as the day wore ou they became ro- 
maucers, leaving the jousts deserted. When 
dinner-time came, aud they all .sat round 



/ 



.ALFRED TENNYSON. 




I.ADY TENNYSON.- After the pnintinc at AkhvoiUi 



the tablo, each in turn put a chapter of his 
history underneath the potato-bowl — h)n<?, 
endless histories, chapter after chapter dif- 
fuse, absorbing, unending, as are the stories 
of real life of which each sunrise ojieiis on a 
new part; some of these romances Avere iu 
letters, like Clarissa HarJowc. Alfred used 
to tell a story whrdi lasted for months, and 
which was called " The Old Horse." 

Alfred's hrst verses, so I once heard him 
say, were written upon a slate Avhicli his 
brotlnu- Charles i>ut into his hand one Sun- 
day at Jjouth, when all the elders of the 
party were going into church, and the child 
was left alone. Cliarlesgave him a subject 
— the llowers in the gardenv-aud when Ik; 
came back from churcli little Alfred biouglit 
the slate to his brotii»>r, all covered with 
written lines of blank verse. They were 
made on the nujdels of Thomson's Seasons, 
the only poetry he had ever read. One can 
picture it all to one's self, the flowers in the 
garden, the verses, the little poet with wait- 



ing eyes, and the young brother scanning 
the lines. " Yes, you can write," said Charles, 
and he gave Alfred back the slate. 

I have also heard another story of his 
grandfather, later on, asking him to write 
ail elegy ou his grandmother, who had re- 
cently died, and, when it was written, put- 
ting ten siiillings into his hands and saying, 
"There, that is the tiist, money you have 
ever earned by your poetry, and, take my 
word for it, it will be the last." 

The Tennysons are a striking example of 
the theory of family inheritanee. Alfred 
was one of twelve children, of whom the 
eldest, Frederick, who was educated at Eton, 
is known as the autlior of a very imagina- 
tive volume of poems. Charles was the sec- 
ond son, and Alfred, whose name is more 
widely known, was t\w third. lie and 
Cliarles were sent for a few years to the 
Glranunar School at Louth, where the Lau- 
reate still remembers walking, adorned with 
blue ribbons in a procession for the proc- 



ALFRED TEN^'YSO^'. 



liiiuation of the coronation of George the 
Fourth. The okl wives said at the time 
that the boys made the prettiest part of the 
show. 

Charles Tennyson — Charles Turner he 
was afterward called, for he took the name 
with a property which he inherited — was 
little Alfred's special friend. and brother. 
In his own most sweet degree, Charles Ten- 



Mr. Spedding (jnotes the picture of a sum- 
mer's daybreak : 

"But one sole .«tar, none other anywhere; 
A wild-rose odor from ihe lields was borne: 
The lark's mysierions joy tilled earth and uir, 
And from the wind's lop met the hnnter's horn; 
The aspen trembled wildly; and the morn 
Breathed np in rosy clonds divinely fair." 

Charles Tennyson was in looks not unlike 
his younger brother. He was statelj^ too, 




TENNYSON'S CHILDREN. -After the paintins at Aldworth by G. F. W.itts, R.A. 



nysou too was a true poet. Who that has 
ever read his sonnets will cease to love 
them? His brother loves and quotes them 
withatfection. Coleridge loved them ; James 
Spedding, wise critic, life-long friend, read 
them with unaltered delight from his youth 
to his much-honored age. In an introduc- 
tory essay to a volume of the collected son- 
nets, published after Charles Turner's death. 



though shorter in stature, gentle, spiritual, 
very noble, simple. I once saw him kneel- 
ing in a church, and only^ once again. He 
was like something out of another world, 
more holy, more silent than that in which 
most of us are living; there is a picture in 
the National Gallery of St. Jerome which 
always recalls him to me. The .sons must 
have inherited their poetic gifts from their 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



father, George Clayton Tennyson, LL.D., a 
tall, striking, ami impressive man, full of 
acc'omplishmeuts and parts, a strong nat- 
ure, higli-souled, high -tempered. He was 
the head of the old family ; but his own 
elder-brother share of its good things had 
passed by will into the hands of another 
branch, which is still represented bj' the 
Tennysons d'Eyucourt.. Perhaps before he 
died he may have realized that to one of his 
hail come possessions greater than any ever 
yet entailed by lawyer's deeds — an inheri- 
tance, a i)riceless Benjamin's portion, not to 
be measured or defined. 

II. 

Alfred Tennyson, as he grew up toward 
manhood, found other and stronger inspira- 
tions than Thomson's gentle Seasons. By- 
ron's spell had fallen on his generation, and 
for a boy of genius it must have been abso- 
lute and overmastering. Tennyson was soon 
to find his own voice, but meanwhile he 
began to write like Byron. He produced 
poems and verses in profusion and endless 
abnndance : trying his wings, as people say, 
before starting on his own strong flight. 
One day the news came to the village — the 
dire news which spread across the land, fill- 
ing men's hearts AviHi consternation — that 
Byron was dead. Alfred was then a boy 
about fifteen. 

" Byron was dead ! I thonght the whole 
world was at an eiul," he once said, speaking 
of these bygone days. "I thought every- 
thing was over and finished for every one — 
that nothing else mattered. I remember I 
walked out alone, and carved ' Byron is 
dead' into the sandstone." 

I have spoken of Tennyson from the ac- 
count of an old friend, whose recollections 
go back to those days, which seem perhaps 
more distant to us than others of earlier 
date and later fashion. Mrs. Tennyson, the 
mother of the family, so this same friend 
tells me, was a sweet and gentle and most 
imaginative woman ; so kind-hearted that 
it had passed into a proverVj, and the wicked 
inhabitants of a neigliboring village used to 
bring their dogs to her windows and beat 
them in ord(,'r to be bribed to leave off l)y 
th(i gentle lady, or to make advantageons 
bargains by selling her the worthless curs. 
She was intensely, fervently religious, as a 
poet's mother sliould be. After her hus- 
band's death (he had added to the rectory, 
and n)ade it suitable for his large family) 
slie still lived on at Somersby with her chil- 
dren and their friends. The daughters were 
growing i\\), the elder sons were going to 
college. Frederick, the eldest, wont first to 
Trinity, Cambridge, and his brothers fol- 
lowed him there in turn. Life was opening 
for them, they were seeing new asjjects and 
places, making new friends, and bringing 
them home to their Lincolnshire rectory. 



"In Memoriam" gives many a glimpse of 
the old home, of wliich the echoes still reach, 
us across half a century. 

"O ponucl to loiU the brood of cares, 
The sweep of scythe in morning dew, 
The gust thnt, round the garden flew, 
And tumbled half the mellowing pears! 

"0 bliss, wlien all in circle drawn 
About him, heart and ear were fed 
To hear him, as he lay and read 
The Tuscan poet on the lawn: 

"Or in the all-golden afternoon 
A guest, or happy sister, sung. 
Or here she bionght the harp and flung 
A ballad to the brightening moon." 

Dean Garden was one of those IViends 
sometimes spoken of who, with Arthur Hal- 
lam, the reader of the Tuscan poet, and 
James Spedding and others, used to gather 
upon the lawn at Somersby — the young men 
and women in the light of their yonth and 
high spirits, the widowed mother leading 
her quiet life within the rectory walls. Was 
it not a happy sister herself who in after- 
days once described how, on a lovely stam- 
mer night, they had all sat up so late talk- 
ing in the starlight that the dawn came 
shining unawares; but the yoitng men, in- 
stead of going to bed, then and there set ofl' 
for a long walk across the hills in the sun- 
rise, 

"And, suck'd from out the distant gloom, 
A l)reeze began to tremble o'er 
The large leaves of the sj'camore,* 
And fluctuate all the still perfume, 

" And gathering freshlier overhead, 

Rock'd the full-lbliaged elms, and swung 
The heavj'-folded rose, and Bung 
The lilies to and fro, and said 

" ' The dawn, the dawn,' and died away ; 
And East and ^\■est, without a breath, 
Mixt their dim lights, like life and death, 
To broaden into boundless day." 

III. 

One thing which cannot fail to strike us 
when we are looking over the records of 
these earlier days is the remarkable influ- 
ence which Alfred Tennyson seems to have 
had from the very first upon his contem- 
poraries, even before his genius had been 
recognized by the rest of the world. Not 
only those of his own generation, but his 
elders and masters seem to have felt some- 
thing of this. I remember long ago hear- 
ing one of Tennyson's oldest friends, who 
has the best right of any to recall tlie fact, 
say that " Whewell, who was a num himself, 
and who knew a man when ho saw him," 
used to pass over in Alfred Tennyson certain 
informalities and forgetfulness of combina- 
tions ;is to gowns, ami ])laces, ;ind times, 
which in another he would never htive over- 
looked. 

Whewell ruled a noble giMieration — a race 
of men born in the beginning of the century, 
whose i)riiise and loyid friendship were in- 
deed worth hiiving, ami whose good oi)iui()n 



* The sycamore has been cut down, and the lawn is 
altered to another shajje. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



Tennyson himself may have been proud to 
possess. Wise, sincere, and witty, tliese con- 
temporaries of his spolve with authority, 
with the modesty of conscious strength. 
Those of this race whom I have known iu 
later days — for they were many of them my 
father's friends also — have all been men of 
unmistakable stamp, of great culture, of a 
certain dignified bearing, and of indepen- 
dence of mind and of character. 

Most of them have succeeded iu life as 
men do who are possessed of intellect and 
high character. Some have iu)t made the 
less mark upon their time because their 
names are less widely known ; but each 
name is a memorable chapter in life to one 
and another of us who have known them 
from our youth. One of those old friends, 
Avho also loved my father, and whom he 
loved, who has himself just passed away, 
one who saw^ life with his own eyes, de- 
scribed Alfred iu his youth, in a pamphlet 
or book w^hich has been privately printed, 
and which is a remembrance, a sort of wak- 
ing dream, of some bygone days and talks. 
How many of us might have been glad to 
listen to our poet, and to the poet who 
has made the philosophy of Omar Khayam 
known to the world, as they discoursed to- 
gether ; of life, of boyish memories, of books, 
and again more books, of chivalry — mainly 
but another name for youth — of a possible 
old age, so thoroughly seasoned with its 
spirit that all the experience of the Avorld 
should serve not to freeze but to direct the 
genial current of the soul! and who that 
has known them both will not recognize 
the truth of this description of Alfred in 
those early days — 

"A man at all points, of grand proportion aud feat- 
ure, siguirtcant of that inward chivalry becoming his 
ancient and honorable race; when himself a 'Yonge 
Squire,' like him in Chaucer, 'of grete strength,' that 
could hurl the crowbar farther than any of the neigh- 
boring clowns, whose humors, as well as of their bet- 
ters —knight, squire, landlord, aud lieutenant — he 
took quiet note of, like Chaucer himself; like Words- 
worth on the mountain, he too when a lad abroad 
on the world, sometimes of a night with the shepherd, 
watching not only the flock on the greeusward, but 
also 

' the fleecy star that bears 
Andromeda far off' Atlantic seas,' 

along witli those other Zodiacal constellations which 
Aries, I think, leads over the field of heaven." 

Arthur Hallam has also written iu some 
lines to E. J. Teunant of 

"a friend, a rare one, 
A noble being full of clearest insight, 

. . . whose fame 
Is couching now with pantherized intent, 
As who shall say, I'll spring to him anon, 
Aud have him for my own." 

All these men could understand each other, 
although they had not then told the world 
their seci-ets. Poets, critics, men of learn- 
ing — such names as Trench and Monckton 
Milues, George Stovin Venables, the Lush- 



ingtons and Kinglake, need no comment; 

many more there are, and deans and canons, 

and the Master of Trinity himself — 

"a band 
Of youthful friends, on mind aud art, 
Aud labor, aud the changing mart, 
Aud all the framework of the laud ; 

" When one would aim an arrow fair. 
But send it slackly from the string ; 
And one would pierce an outer ring, 
Aud one au inner, here aud there ; 

"Aud last the master-bowman, he, 
Would cleave the mark." 

The lines to J. S. were written to one of 

these earlier associates ; 

"And gently comes the world to those 
That are cast iu gentle mould." 

It was the prophecy of a whole lifetime. 
There were but few signs of age in James 
Spedding's looks, none in his charming com- 
panionshij), when the accident befell him 
wliich took him away from those who loved 
him. To another old companion, the Rev. 
W. H. Brookfield, is dedicated that sonnet 
which flows like an echo of Cambridge 
chimes on a Sabbath morning. It is in this 
sonnet that Tennyson speaks of "him the 
lost light of those dawn-goldeu times," who 
was himself one of that generation of which 
I have been writiug. 

IV. 

Arthur Hallam was the same age as my 
own father, and born in 1811. When he 
died ho was but twenty-three ; but he had 
lived long enough to show what his life 
might have been. 

In the preface to a little volume of his 
collected poems and essays, published some 
time after his death, there is a pathetic in- 
troduction. "He seemed to tread the earth 
as a spirit from some better world," writes 
his fiither ; aud a correspondent, who, I have 
been told, is Arthur Hallam's aud Tenny- 
son's common friend, Mr. Gladstone, and 
whose letter is quoted, says, with true feel- 
ing : " It has pleased God that in his death, 
as well as in his life and nature, he should 
be marked beyond ordinary men. When 
nuich time has elapsed, when most bereave- 
ments will be forgotten, he will still be re- 
membered, aud his place, I fear, Avill be felt 
to be still vacant; singularly as his mind 
was calculated by its native tendencies to 
work powerfully aud for gootl, in an age full 
of import to the nature and destinies of 
man." 

How completely these words have been 
carried out must strike us all now. The 
father lived to see the youug man's uncon- 
scious influence working through his friend's 
geuius, and reachiug a whole generation un- 
born as yet on the day when he died. A 
lady, speaking of Arthur Hallam after his 
death, said to Mr. Tenuysou, "I think he 
was perfect." "And so he was," said Mr. 
Tenuysou, " as near perfection as a mortal 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 




THE MEETING OF THE SEVERN AND WYK. 



mail can bo." Aitliiu- Hallam was a rnau of 
leniaikalile intellect. He could take in the 
most (lifflcult and abstruse ideas with an ex- 
traordinary rapidity and insight. On one 
occasion he began to work one afternoon, 
and mastered a ditiicnlt book of Descartes at 
one single sitting. In the preface to the Me- 
morials Mr. Hallam speaks of this peculiar 
clearness of perception and facility for ac- 
quiring knowledge ; but, above all, the fa- 
ther dwells on his son's undeviating sweet- 
uess of disposition and adhereuc(^ to his 
sense of what was right. In the quarterlies 
and reviews of the time his opinion is 
(inoted here and there with a respect wiiich 
shows in what esteem it was already held. 

At the time Arthur Hallam died, he was 
engaged to he married to a sister of the 
poet's. She was scarcely seventeen at the 
tinu3. One of the sonnets, addres.sed by 
Arthur Hallam to his betrothed, was written 
when he began to teach her Italian. 



" Lady, I bid thee to a sunny dome, 
Ringing witti echoes of Italian song; 
Henceforth to thee these magic hnlls belong, 

And all the pleasant place is like a home. 

Hark, on the right, with full piano tone. 
Old Dante's voice encircles all the air; 
Hark yet again, like Hute-tones mingling rare 

Comes the keen sweetness of Petrarca's moan. 

Pass thou the lintel freely ; without fear 
Feast on the music. I do better know thee 
Than to suspect this pleasure thou dost owe me 

Will wrong thy gentle spirit, or make less dear 
That element whence thou must draw thy life— 
An English maiden and an Knglish wife.'' 

As we read the pages of this little book, 
we come upon more than one happy moment 
saved out of the i)ast, hours of delight and 
peaceful friendship, saddened by no forebod- 
ing, and comjilete in themselves. 

"Alfred, T would that yon beheld me now, 
Sitting beneath an ivieil, mossy wall. 
.... Above my head 
Dilates immeasurable a wild of leaves, 
Seeming received into the blue expanse 
That vaults the summer noon." 

There is something touching in the tran- 
quil ring of the voice calling out in the sum- 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



mir noontide with all a young man's ex^mn- 
sion. 

It seemed to be but the beginning of a 
beautiful happj' life, when suddenly the end 
came. Arthur Hallani was travelling with 
his father in Austria when he died very sud- 
denly, with scarce a warning sign of illness. 
Mr. ilallam had come home and found his 
son, as he supposed, sleejjiug upon a couch ; 
but it was death, not sleep. "Those whose 
eyes must long be dim with tears" — so writes 
the heart-stricken father — "brought him 
home to rest among his kindred and in his 
own country." They chose his resting- 
place in a tranquil spot on a lone hill that 
overhangs the Bristol Channel. He was 
buried in the chancel of Clevedon Church, 
in Somerset, by Clevedon Court, which had 
been his mother's early home. 

"The Danube to the Severn gave 

The darken 'd heart that beat no more : 
They laid him by the |)leasant shore, 
And in the hearing of the wave. 

"There twice a day the Severn fills ; 
The salt sea-water passes by, 
And hushes half the babbling Wye, 
And makes a silence in the hills." 

In all England there was not a sweeter 
place than the sunny old Court upon the hill, 
with its wide i)roHpects and grassy terraces, 
where Arthur Hallam must have played in 
his childhood, whence others of his kiudred, 
touched with his own bright and beautiful 
spirit, have come forth. His brother Harry, 
a gentle and delightful person, used to be 
constantly at the house of their cousin, Mrs. 
Brookfield. He too was carried off in his 
youth of fullest promise. When Mr. Hallam, 
after a life of repeated sorrows, at last went 
to his rest with his wife and his children, it 
was Alfred Tenuj'sou who wrote his epitaph, 
which may still be read in the chancel of 
the old church. Tlie lovely old house was 
burned in 1883. 



V. 

Once in their early youth we hear of the 
two friends, Tennyson and Hallam, travel- 
ling in the Pyrenees. This was at the time 
of the war of early Spanish independence, 
when man}' generous young men went over 
with funds and good energies to help the 
cause of liberty. These two were taking 
money, and letters written in invisible ink, 
to certain conspirators who were then revolt- 
ing against the intolerable tyranny of Fer- 
dinand, and who were chiefly hiding in the 
Pyrenees. The young men met, among 
others, a Senor Ojeda, who confided to Alfred 
his intentions, which were to conpcr la {/ovffe 
a tons Ics curl's. Senor Ojeda could not talk 
P^nglish or fully explain all his aspirations. 
" Mais vons connaissez vioii coeur," said he, 
effusively ; and a pretty black one it is, 
thought the poet. I have heard Alfred de- 
scribed in those days as "straight and with 
a broad breast," and when he had crossed 
over from the Continent and was coming 
back, walking through Wales, he went one 
day into a little way-side inn, where an old 
man sat by the tire, who looked up, and asked 
many questions. "Are you from the army ? 
Not from the ai'my ? Then where do you 
come from ?" said the old man. " I am just 
come from the Pyi'enees," said Alfred. " Ah, 
I knew there was a sometliing," said the 
wise old nntn. 

John Kemble was among those who had 
gone over to Spain, and one day a rumor 
came to distant Somersby that he was to be 
tried for his life by the Spanish aiithorities. 
No one else knew much about him except 
Alfred Tennyson, who started before dawn 
to drive across the country in search of some 
person of authority who knew the consul at 
Cadiz, and who could send letters of protec- 
tion to the poor pi'isoner. 







( 










CLEVEDON COURT.— After an unpuWisIiel sketch by W. M.Thackeray. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 










BURLEIGH HOUSE, BY STAMFORD TOWN. 



It was a false alarm. John Keinlile came 
home to make a name for himself iu other 
fields. Meanwhile Alfred Tenuysou's owu 
rei)utation was growiug, and wheu the first 
two vokimes of his collected poems were 
published in 1842, followed by The Frincess 
in 1847, his fame spread throughout the 
land. 

Some of the reviews were violent and 
antagonistic at first. One iu particular had 
tasted blood, and the " Hang, draw, and 
(Juurterly," as it has beeu called, of those 
days, having lately cut up Endymion, now 
|)roceeded to demolish Tennyson. 

But this was a passing phase. It is curi- 
ous to note the sudden change iu the toue 
of the criticisms — the absolute surrender of 
these knights of the pen to the irresistible 
and brilliant advance of the unknown and 
visored warrior. The visor is raised now, 
the face is familiar to us all, but the arms, 
though tested in a hundred fights, are shin- 
ing and uncoiiquered still. 

William Howitt, whom we have already 
quoted, has written an article upon the Ten- 
nyson of these earlier days. It is fanciful, 
suggestive, full of interest, with a gentle 
mysterious play and tender appreciation. 
Si)eaking of the poet himself, he asks, with 
the rest of the world of that time: "You 
may hear his voice, but where is the man? 
He is wandering iu some dream-laud, beneath 
the shade of old and charmed forests, by far- 
off shores, where 

'all night 
The plinigiufr seas thaw backwaril from the land 
Their nioon-lert waters while;' 

by the old mill-dam, tiiinkiug of the merry 
miller and his pretty daughter; or wander- 
ing over the open wolds where 

'Norland whirhviiids blow.' 
From .all these places — from the silent coi'- 
ridor of an ancient convent, from some shrine 
wliere a devoted knight x'ecites his vows, 



from the drear monotony of ' the moated 
grange,' or the forest beneath the ' talking 
oak' — comes the voice of Tennyson, rich, 
I dreamy, passionate, yet not impatient, musi- 
cal with the airs of chivalrous ages, yet 
uungling in his song the theme and the 
spirit of those that are yet to come." 

This article was written many years ago, 
when but the first chords had sounded, be- 
fore the glorious Muse, passing beyond her 
morning joy, had met with the soitow of life. 
j But it is well that as we travel on through 
later, sadder scenes we should still carry in 
our hearts this joyous and romantic music. 
j One must be English born, I think, to know 
' how English is the spell which this great 
j enchanter casts over us ; the very spirit of 
the land falls upon us as the visions he 
evokes come closing round. Whether it is 
j the moated grange that he shows us, or 
I Locksley Hall that iu the distance overlooks 
; the sandy tracts, or Dora standing in the 
corn, or the sight of the brimming wave that 
, swings through quiet meadows round the 
mill, it is all home in its broadest, sweetest 
I aspect. Take the gallant wooing of the 
, Lord of Burleigh : 

"So she goes bj' him attended, 
1 Hears him lovingly converse, 

I Sees whatever fair and splendid 

Lay betwixt his home and hers ; 
Parks with oak and cheslnut shady, 
j Parks and order'd gardens greai, 

Ancient homes of lord and lady, 
Built for pleasure and for state. 
I All he shows her makes him dearer: 

Evermore she seems to gaze 
i On that, cottage growing nearer, 

Where they twain will spend their days. 
I O but she will love him truly I 

I lie shall have a cheerful liome ; 

She will order all things duly, 

Wlieii beneath his roof they come. 
Thus her heart rejoices gi-eatly. 

Till a gateway she discerns 
With armorial bearings stately, 
1 And beneath the gate she turns ; 

Sees a mansion more majestic 
Thau all those she saw before." 

' But one might go on (pioting forever. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



Another critic, writing even before this 
time, bad said of Tennyson, " He imitates 
nobody ; in him we recognize the spirit of 
his age." It would not be easy for a gener- \ 
ation that lias grown up to the music of j 
Tennyson, that has in a manner beaten time : 
to it with the pulse of its life, to imagine i 
what the world would be without it. Even 
the most original amongst us ninst needs ! 
think of things more or less in the shape in 
which they come before us. The mystery of 
the charm of words is as great as that by 
which a wonder of natural beauty comes 
Jironnd us, and lays hold of our imagination. 
It may be fancy, but I for one feel as if sum- 
mer-time could scarcely be summer without 
the song of the familiar green books. 

VI. 

In Memoriam, with music in its cantos, be- 
longing to the school of all men's sad hearts, 
rings the awful Be Profundis of death, faced 
and realized as far as may be by a human 
soul. It came striking suddenly into all the 
sweet ideal beauty and lovely wealth which 
had gone before, with a revelation of that 
secret of life which is told to each of us in 
turn by the sorrow of its own soul. Nothing 
can be more simple than the form of the 
poem as it flows. 

" Short swallow-flights of song, that dip 
Their wings iu tears, aucl skim away," 

the poet says himself, bnt it is something 
else which we can all acknowledge — some- 
thing which has given words and ease to 
many of those who in their lonely frozen 
grief perhaps felt that they are no longer 



quite alone, when such a voice as this can 

reach them : 

" Peace : come away : the song of woe 
Is after all au earthly song": 
Peace ; come away : we do him wrong 
To sing 80 wildly: let us go." 

And as the cry passes away, come signs of 

peace and dawning light: 

" Be neither song, nor game, nor feast ; 

Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown ; 
No dance, no motion, save alone 
What lightens iu the lucid east 

" Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 
Long sleeps the summer in the seed ; 
Kuu out your measured arcs, and lead 
The closing cycle rich in good." 

And the teacher who can read the great book 
of nature interprets for us as he turns the 
page. 

With In Memoriam, which was not pub- 
lished till 1850, Alfred Tennyson's fame was 
firmly estaljlished; and when Wordsworth 
died, April 23, its author was appointed by 
the Queen Poet Laureate. There is a story 
that at the time Sir Robert Peel was con- 
sulted he had never read any Tennyson, but 
he read " Ulysses " and warmed up, and ac- 
knowledged the right of this new-come poet 
to be England's Laureate. 

The home at Somersbj^ was broken up by 
this time, by mai-riages and other family 
events. Alfred Tennyson had come to live 
in London. He was poor ; he had iu turn 
to meet that struggle with wholesome pov- 
erty which brings the vagueness of genius 
into contact with reality, and teaches, bet- 
ter, perhaps, than any other science, the pa- 
tience, the forbearance, and knowledge of 
life which belong to it. 




CAERLEON UPON USK. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



The Princess, with all her lovely court and 
glowing harmonies, was born iu London, 
among the fogs and smuts of Lincoln's Inn, 
although, like all works of true art, this 
poem had grown by degrees in other times 
and i)]aces. The poet came and went, free, 
unshackled, meditating, inditing. One of 
my family remembers hearing TiMinyson say 
that " Tears, idle Tears," was suggested by 
Tintern Abbey ; who shall say by what mys- 
terious wonder of beauty and regret, by what 
seuse of the "transient with the abiding" ? 

In Memoriam was followed by the tirst 
part of the JdiiUs, and the record of the 
court King Arthur held at Camelot, and 
at " old Caerleon upon Usk " on that event- 
ful Whitsuntide when Prince Geraint came 
quickly flashing through the shallow ford 
to the little knoll where the queen stood 
with her maiden, and 

.... "listen'd for the distant hunt, 
And chiefly for the baying of Cavall." 

If /*) Memoriam is the record of a human 
soul, the Idjilh mean the history, not of one 
man or of one generation, but of a whole 
cycle, of the faith of a nation failing and 
falliug away into darkness. "It is the 
dream of man coming into practical life, 
and ruined by one sin." Birth is a mystery, 
and death is a mystery, and iu the midst 
lies the table-land of life, and its struggle 
and performance. 

The first " Idyll " and the last, I have 
he.iid Mi Tlnn^'^()n sa^,alc intentionally 
moH aichiK tliaii the otlui^ H( once told 



us that the song of the knights nuirching 
past the king at the marriage of Arthur was 
made one spring afternoon on Clapham 
Common as he walked along. 

" Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May ; 
Blow trumpet, the loii^ uioht hatti roll'd away ! 
Blow through the living world — 'Let the King 
reign.'" 

So sang the young knights in the first bright 
days of early chivalry. 

"Clang battle-axe, and clash brand! Let the King 
reitrn . 
The King will follow Christ, and we the King." 

And then when the doom of evil spread, 
bringing not sorrow alone, but destruction 
in its train, not death only, but hoi)elessuess 
and consternation, the song is finally changed 
into an echo of strange woe ; we hear no 
shout of triumph, but the dim shocks of 
battle, 

"the crash 
Of battle-axe on shatter'd helms, and shrieks 
Afier the Christ, of those who falling down 
Look'd up for heaven, and only saw the mist." 

All is over with the fair court; Guine- 
vere's golden head is low ; she has fled to 
Almesbury — 

" Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald, 
And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald 
Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan : 
And in herself she moan'd, 'Too late, too late !' 
Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn, 
A blot in heaven, the Eaveu, flying high, 
Cioak'd, and she thought, 'He spies a field of 
death.'" 

And finally comes the conclusion, and 
the "Passing of Arthur," and he vanishes as 
he came, in mystery, silently floating away 




AL.MIisUUKV. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 




upon the barge toward the East, whence all 
religions are said to come. 

I have heard them all speak of these Lon- 
don days when Alfred Tennyson lived in 
poverty with his friends and his golden 
. dieams. He lived in the Temple, at 58 
Lincoln's Inn Fields, and elsewhere. 

It was about this time that Carlyle in- 
trodnced Sir John Simeon to Tennyson one 
night at Bath Honse, and made the often- 
quoted speech, "There he sits upon a dung- 
heap snrroimded by innnmerable dead dogs ;" 
by which dead dogs he meant " Qinone " and 
other Greek versions and adaptations. He 
had said the same thing of Landor and his 
Hellenics. " I was told of this," said Mr. 
Tennyson, "and some time afterward I re- 
lieated it to Carlyle: 'I'm told that is what 
you say of me.' He gave a kind of gntt'aw. 
'Eh, that wasn't a very Innunons descrip- 
tion of you,' he answered." 

The story is well worth retelling, so com- 
pletely does it illnstrate the grim humor and 
unaifected caudor of a dyspeptic man of ge- 
nins, who Hung words and epithets without 
malice, who neither realized the pain liis 
chance sallies might give, nor the indelible 
flash which branded them upon people's 
memories. 

The world has pointed its moral finger of 
late at the old man in Iiis great old age, ac- 
cusing himself in the face of all, and con- 
fessing the overpowering irritations which 
the suffering of a lifetime had laid upon 
him and upon her he loved. That old caus- 



tic man of deepest feeling, with an ill tem- 
per and a tender heart and a racking imagi- 
nation, speaking from the grave, and bearing 
unto it that cross of passionate remorse 
whicli few among us dare to face, seems to 
some of us now a figure nobler and truer, a 
teacher greater far, than in the days when 
all his pain and love and remorse were still 
hidden from us all. 

Carlyle and Mr. Fitzgerald used to be 
often with Tennyson at that time. They 
used to dine together at the " Cock" tavern 
in the Strand among other places ; some- 
times Tennyson and Carlyle took long soli- 
tary walks late into the night. 

The other day a lady was describing a 
bygone feast given about this time by tlie 
poet to Lady Duff Gordon, and to another 
young and beautiful, lady, a niece of Mr. 
Hallam's. Harry Hallam was also asked. 
Mr. Tennyson, in his hosiiitality, had sent 
for a carpenter to change the whole furni- 
ture of his bedroom in order to prepare a 
proper drawing-room for the ladies. Mr. 
Brookfield, coming in, was in time to sug- 
gest some compromise, to which the host 
reluctantly agreed. One cau imagine that 
it was a delightful feast, but indeed it is 
always a feast-daj- Avhen one breaks bread 
with those one loves, and the writer is glad 
to think that she too has been among those 
to sit at the kind board where the salt has 
not lost its savor in the years that have 
passed, and where the guests can say their 
grace not for bread and wine alou(!. May 
she add that the first occasion of her having 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



the liouor of breaking bread in company 
■nitb Mr. Tenuyson was in her father's house, 
■when she was propped up in a tail chair be- 
tween her parents. 

VII. 

Some of the writer's earliest recollections 
are of days now long gone by, when many 
of these young men of whom she has been 
speaking, grown to be middle-aged, used 
to come from time to time to her father's 
house, and smoke with him, and talk and 
laugh quietly, taking life seriously, but hu- 
morously too, with a certain loyalty to oth- 
ers aud self-respect which was their charac- 
teristic. They were somewhat melancholy 
men at soul, but for that very reason, per- 
haps, the hnmors of life may have struck 
them more especially. It is no less possible 
that our children will think of us as cheer- 
ful folks upon the whole, with no little af- 
fectation of melancholy and all the graces. 

I can remember on one occasion looking 
across a darkening room through a cloud 
of smoke at the noble, grave head of the 
Poet Lanreate. He was sitting with my 
father in the twilight after some family 
meal in the old house in Kensington. It is 
Mr. Tennyson himself who has reminded me 
how upon this occasion, while my father 
was speaking to mc, mj^ little sister looked 
up suddenly from the book over whicii she 
had been absorbed, saying, in her sweet 
childish voice, " Papa, why do you not 
write books like Nicholas Nicllebji ?" Then 
again I seem to hear, across that same famil- 
iar table, voices without shape or name, 
talking and telling each other that Mr. 
Tennyson was married — that he and his 
■wife had been met walking on the terrace 



at Clevedon Court ; and then the clouds de- 
scend again, except, indeed, that I still see 
my father riding oif on his brown cob to 
Mr. and Mrs. Tennyson's house at Twicken- 
ham to attend the christening of Hallam, 
their eldest son. In after-years we were 
shown the old ivy-grown church aud the 
rectory at Shiplake, by the deep bend of 
the Thames, where their marriage took 
place. One can not but believe that which 
one has seen and heard, and yet it is hard 
to realize that some homes were not always 
there, created in one breath, complete in 
themselves and in their blessings. 

It was at Somersby that Alfred Tennyson 
first became acquainted with his wife. She 
was eldest daughter of Henry Sellwood, the 
last but one of a family of country gentle- 
men settled in Berkshire in the time of 
Charles I., and before that, in Saxon times, 
as it is said, more important people in the 
forest of their name. Her mother was a 
sister of Sir John Franklin. 

Not many years after their marriage Mr. 
and Mrs. Tennyson settled at Freshwater, 
in the Isle of Wight. There is a photograph 
I have always liked, in Avhich it seems to 
me the history of this homo is written, as 
such histories should be written, in sun- 
light, in the flashing of a bright beam, iu 
an instant, and forever. It was taken in 
the green glade at Farringford. Hallam 
and Lionel Tennyson stand on either side 
of their parents, the sun is shining, and no 
doubt the thrushes and robins are singing 
and fluttering in the wind-blown branches 
of the trees, as the father and mother and 
the children come advancing towards us. 
Who does not know the beautiful lines of 
the xjoet : 




FARKINGFORU IJEACOX.— From an unimbliahed sketch by Frederick Walker. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 




IN THE NEW lUUEdT. 



"Dear, near, and trne — no tniei- Time himself 
Can piuve you, tliougti he make you evermore 
Dearer and nearer." 

And though years have passed, and the chil- 
dren with their wind-blown locks are now 
men, and it is another generation — little 
golden-haired Ally and liis brother Charlie 
babbling of life's new wine— who are now 
picking the daffodils under the Farriugford 
hedge, yet the old i^icture remains, and 
shines through to the present. 

As the writer notes down these various 
fragments of remembrance, and compiles 
this sketch of present things, she cau not 
but feel how much of the past it all means 
to her, and how very much her own feeling- 
is an inheritance which has gathered intei'- 
est during a lifetime, so that the chief claim 
of her words to be regarded is that they 
are those of au old friend. Her father's 
warmth of admiration comes back vividlj' 
as she writes, all his pleasure when lie se- 
cured " Tithonus " for one of the early num- 
bers of the Cornhill Magazine, his immense 
and outspoken admiration for the Idylls of 
the King. 

VIII. 

One autumn, when everything seemed 
bright at home, Mrs. Cameron took me with 
her to Freshwater for a few happy weeks, 
and then, for the first time, I lived with 
them all, and with kind Mrs. Cameron, in 
the ivy-grown house near the gates of Far- 
riugford. For the first time I stayed in the 
island, and with the people who were dwell- 
ing there, and walked with Tennyson along 
1* 



High Down, treading tlie turf, li^itening to 
his talk, while the gulls came sideways, 
flashing their white breasts against the 
edge of the cliffs, and the poet's cloak beat 
time to the gusts of the west wind. 

The house at Farriugford itself seemed 
like a charmed palace, with green walls 
without, and speaking walls withili. There 
hung Dante with his solemn nose and 
wreath ; Italy gleamed over the doorways ; 
friends' faces lined the way ; books filled 
the shelves, and a glow of crimson was 
everywhere ; the great oriel drawing-room 
window was full of green and golden leaves, 
of the sound of birds and of the distant sea. 

The very names of the people who have 
stood upon the lawn at Farriugford would 
be an interesting study for some future 
biographer: Longfellow, Maurice, Kingsley, 
the Duke of Argyll, Locker, Dean Stanley, 
the Prince Consort. Good Garibaldi once 
planted a tree there, off which some too ar- 
dent republican broke a branch before 
twenty-four hours had passed. Here came 
Clough in tlie last year of his life. Here 
Mrs. Cameron fixed her lens, marking the 
well-known faces as they passed : Darwin 
and Henry Taylor, Watts and Aubrey de 
Vere, Lecky and Jowett, and a score of 
others. 

I first knew the place in the autumn, but 
perhaps it is even more beautiful in spring- 
time, when all day the lark trills high over- 
head, and then when the lark has flown oat 
of our hearing the thrushes begin, and the 
air is sweet with scents from the many fra- 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 






^^iW" 




TENNYSON READING " MAUD."— From a sketch by Daute Gabriel Rossetti, 1856, 



grant shrubs. The woods are full of aue- 
mones aud primroses; uarcissus grows wild 
in the lower fields ; a lovely creamy stream 
of flowers flows along the lanes, and lies 
hidden in the levels; hyacinth pools of 
blue shine in the woods ; and then with a 
later burst of glory comes the gorse, liglit- 
ing up the country round about, and blazing 
round aljout the beacon hill. Tlie little 
sketch here given was made early one morn- 
ing by Frederick Walker, who had come 
over to see us at Freshwater. The beacon 
hill stands behind Farringford. If you cross 
the little wood of nightingales and thrushes, 
and follow the lane where the blackthorn 
hedg(^s shine in spring-time (lovely dials 
that illuminate to show the hour), you come 



to the downs, and climbing their smooth 
steeps you reach " Mr. Tennyson's Down," 
where the beacon-staff stands firm upon the 
mound. Theu, following the line of the 
coast, you come at last to the Needles, aud 
may look down upon the ridge of rocks that 
rises, crisp, shar}», shining, out of the blue 
wash of fierce delicious waters. 

The lovely places and sweet conutiy all 
about Farringford are not among the least 
of its charms. Beyond the Primrose Island 
itself and the blue Solent, the New Forest 
spreads its shades, and the green depths 
reach to the very shores. Have we not all 
read of the forest where Merlin was be- 
charmed, where the winds were still in the 
wild woods of Broceliande ? The forest of 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



Brockeuhnrst, iu Hampshire, waves no less 
green, its ferns and depths are no less sweet 
and sylvan, than those of Brittany. 

" Before an o:ik, so hollow, huire, and old 
It loolv'd a tower of niin'd mason-work, 
At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay." 

I have heard of Mr. Tennyson wandering 
for days together iu the glades round about 
Lyndhurst. Some people ouce told me of 
meeting a mysterious figure in a cloak com- 
ing out of a deep glade, passing straight on, 
looking neither to the right nor the left. 
"It was either a ghost or it was Mr. Tenny- 
son," said they. 

In Sir John Simeon's lifetime there was a 
constant intercourse between Farriugford 
and Swaiuston. Sir John was one of Ten- 
nyson's most coustantcompanions — a knight 
of courtesy he calls him in the sad liues writ- 
ten iu the garden at Swaiuston. 

Maud grew out of a remark of Sir John 
Simeon's, to whom Mr. Tennyson had read 
the lines, 

"O that 'twere possible *■ 

After long grief and pain," 

ivhich lines were, so to speak, the lieart of 
Maud. Sir John said that it seemed to him 
as if something were wanting to explain the 
story of this poem, and so by degrees it all 
grew. One little story was told me on the 
authority of Mr. Henry Sidgwick, who was 
perliaps present on that occasion. Mr. Ten- 
nyson was reading the poem to a silent com- 
pany assembled in the twilight, and when 
he got to the birds in the high hall garden 
calling Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, he stopped 
short, and asked an authoress who happened 
to be present what birds these were. The 
authoress, much alarmed, and feeling that 
she must speak, and that the eyes of the 
wliole company were upon her, faltered out, 
"Nightingales, sir." "Pooh," said Tenny- 
son, "what a cockney you are! Nightin- 



gales don't say Maud. Rooks do, or some- 
tliing like it. Caw, caw, caw, caw, caw". 
Then he went on reading. 

Reading, is it ? Oue can hardly describe 
it. It is a sort of mystical incantation, a 
chant in which every note rises and falls 
and reverberates again. As we sit around 
the twilight room at Farriugford, with its 
great oriel-window looking to the garden, 
across fields of hyacinth and self-sowed daf- 
fodils toward the sea, where the waves wash 
against tlie rock, we seem carried by a tide 
not unlike the ocean's sound ; it fills the 
room, it ebbs and flows away ; and when we 
leave, it is with a strange music in our ears, 
feeling that we have for the first time, per- 
haps, heard what we may have read a hun- 
dred times before. 

More than once after a reading I can re- 
member the whole party starting forth into 
the night to listen to the song of the night- 
ingale coming across the field or the quiet 
park. The nightingales in the island do not 
sing with passion, but calmly and delight- 
fully, to their mates as they sit upon their 
nests, singing and stopping, and singing 
agaiu. Once when Mr. Tennyson was in 
Yorkshire, so he told me, as he was walking 
at night in a friend's garden, he heard a 
nightingale singing with such a frenzy of 
passion that it was unconscious of every- 
thing else, and not frightened though he 
came and stood quite close beside it ; he 
could see its eye flashing, and feel the air 
bubble in his ear through the vibration. 
Our poet, with his short-sighted eyes, can 
see farther than most people. Almost the 
first time I ever walked out with hiiu, he 
told me to look and tell him if the field-lark 
did not come down sideways upon its wing. 

Like his friend Mr. Browning, he instinc- 
tively knows everything that is going on 
round about him, though at the time he 




THE EDGE OF BLACKDOWN, SHOWING TENNYSON'S HOUSE, 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



may not always stop to note it. There is a 
tribnte to (his peculiar gift in Mrs. Gaskell's 
story of Craxford ; it is from the old farmer 
who had lived so long before the young 
poet came who taught him that asli buds 
■were black in May. Nature in its various 
aspects makes up a larger part of this man's 
life than it does for other peoi>le. He goes 
liis way unconsciously absorbing life, and 
its lights and sounds, and teaching us to do 
the same as far as may be. There is an in- 
stance of this given in the pamphlet already 



boatman, "When I last was here I lieard 
eight echoes, and now I only hear one." To 
which the man, who had heard people quot- 
ing the Bugle Song, replied, "Why, you must 
be the gentleman that brought all the mon- 
ey to the place." 

People have different ideas of poets. Mrs. 
B ,of Totland's Bay, once asked a Fresh- 
water boy, who was driving her, if he 
knew Mr. Tennyson. " He makes poets for 
the Qneen," said the boy. "What do you 
mean V said the lady, ainused. " I don't 







THK OAK LAWM, ALD WORTH. 



quoted from, where the two friends talk on 
of one theme and another from Kenelm Dig- 
by to Aristophanes, and the poet is described 
as saying, among other things, that he knows 
of no human outlook so solemn as that from 
an infant's eyes, and that it was from those 
of his own he learned that those of the Di- 
vine Child in Kaffaello's Sistine Madonna 
were not overcharged Avith expression. 

Here is a rennniscence ofTennyson's about 
the echo at Killaruey, where he said to the 



know what they means," said the boy, " but 
p'liceman often seen him walking about 
a-making of 'em under the stars." The au- 
thor oi Enphranor has his own definition of 
a poet : 

"The only living — and like to live— poet I have 
known, when he found himself beside llie 'bonnie 
Doon,' whether it weie from recollection of poor 
Bnrns, or of ' the daj's that are no more ' which liaunt 
us all, I know not — I think he did not know — 'broke 
into a passion of tears' (as he told me). Of tears, 
which during a pretty long and intimate intercourse 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 




I hadnevei seen glisten- 
iag in his eyes but once, 
when leidiug Viigil— ' deai 
old \iigil, as. he called him— 
together, and then- oh, not 
of Qneeii Dido, uoi of joiiiig Mai- 
cellus even, but of the btiiniug of 
Tioj, m the second ^ueid — 
whethei moved by the catastro- 
phe itself, or the majesty of the verse it ,, . 
is told ill, or as before, scarce knowing "" 
why. For as King Arthur shall bear witness 
no young Edwin he, though, as a great poet, 
comprehending all the softer stops of human 
emotion in that diapason where the intellec- 
tual, no less than what is called the poetical, 
faculty predominated." 

" Yon will last," Douglas Jeri'okl said. 
Ami there was Carlyle's " Eh ! he has got 
the grip of it," when Teiiuysou read him the 
Revenge. But perhaps the best compliment 
Mr. Tennyson ever received was one day 
when walking in Coveut Garden, when he 
was (stopped by a rongh-looking man, vrho 
held out his hand, and said: " Yon're Mr. 
Tennyson. Look here, sir, here am I. I've 
been drunk for six days ont of the sevou, 
but if you will shake me by the hand, I'm 
d d if I ever get drunk again." 

IX. 

Aldworth was built some dozen years 
ago, when Mrs. Tennyson had been ordered 
change, and Freshwater was found to be un- 
bearable and overcrowded during the sum- 
mer months. It must be borne in mind that 
to hospitable people there are dangers from 
friendly inroads as well as from the attacks 
of enemies. The new house, where for many 
years past the family has spent its summers, 
stands on the sumiuit of a high lonely hill 
in Surrey, and j'et it is uot quite out of reach 
of London life. It is a white stone house 
with many broad windows facing a great 
view and a long terrace, like some one of 
those at Siena or Perugia, with alow paraiiet 
of stone, where ivies and roses are trained, 
making a foreground to the lovely haze of 
the distance. Sometimes at Aldworth, when 
the summer days are at their brightest, and 



_ ^__ , ■■ ■ f l<'''-cii-;fjj;!^,;'i.' ■•; ; ■ ■ ■• V;','' J ' 'i^'f^^l') '^ ^ • '" Auw<^^rM Oct. itsi., r 
TENNYSON'S HOME AT ALDWORTH, SURREY. 

high Blackdown top has been well warmed 
and sunned, I have seen a little procession 
coming along the terrace walk, and proceed- 
ing by its green boundary into a garden, 
where the sun shines its hottest upon a 
sheltered lawn, and where standard rose- 
trees burn their flames. Mr. Tennyson in 
his broad hat goes first, dragging the garden 
chair in which Mrs. Tennyson lies ; perhaps 
one son is pushing from behind, while an- 
other follows with rugs and cushions for the 
rest of the party. If the little grandsons 
and their young mother are there, the fami- 
ly group is complete. One special day I re- 
member when we all sat for an hour round 
about the homely chair and its gentle occu- 
jiant. It seemed uot unlike a realization of 
some Italian picture that I had somewhere 
seen, the tranquil eyes, tiie peaceful heights, 
the glorious summer day, some sense of 
lasting calm, of beauty beyond the present 
honr. 

No impression of this life at Aldworth aud 
Farringford would be complete if, beside the 
parents, the sons were not seen, adding each 
in his own measure to the grateful sight of a 
united household. Hallam, the eldest son, 
has been for years past the adviser, the 
friend, aiid companion of his fiither aud 
mother at home; and Lionel, the younger, 
although living away in Loudou in his own 
home, all the same holds fast to the family 
tradition of parents and children closely 
united through the chances aud changes of 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



life, and trusting and supporting one an- 
other. 

Mr. Tennyson works alone in tlie early 
liours of the morning, and comes down long 
after his own frugal meal is over to find his 
guests assembling round the social breakfast- 
table. He generally goes out for a walk be- 
fore luncheon, with a son and a friend, per- 
haps, and followed by a couple of dogs. All 
Londoners know the look of the stalwart fig- 
ure and the fine face and broad-brimmed felt 
hat as he advances. 

There is one little ceremony peculiar to 
the Tennyson family, and reminding one of 
some college custom, which is, that when 
dinner is over the guests are brought away 
into a second room, where stands a white 
table, upou which fruit and wine are set, and 
a fire burns bright, and a pleasant hour 
passes, while the master of the house sits in 
his carved chair and discourses upon any 
topic suggested by his guests, or brings forth 
reminiscences of early Lincolnshire days, or 
from the facts he remembers out of the lives 
of past men who have been his friends. Tliere 
was Rogers, among the rest, for whom he had 
a great affection, with whom he constantly 
lived during that lonely time in London. 
"I have dined alone with him," I heard Mr. 
Tennyson say, " and we have talked about 
death till the tears rolled down his face." 

Tennyson met Tom Moore at Rogers's, and 
there, too, he first met Mr. Gladstone. John 
Forster, Leigh Hunt, and Landor were also 
frieuds of that time. One of Tennyson's 
often companions in those days was Mr. 
Hallam, whose opinion he once asked of 
Carlyle's French Revolution. Mr. Hallam re- 
plied, in his quick, rapid way, " Upon my 
word, I once opened the book, and read four 
or five pages. The style is so abominable I 
could not get on with it." Whereas Carlyle's 
own criticism upon the History of the Middle 
Ages was, " Eh ! the poor, miserable skeleton 
of a book !" 

Was it not Charles Lamb who wanted to 
return grace after reading Shakspeare, little 
deeming in humble simplicity that many of 
us yet to come would be glad to return 
thanks for a jest of Charles Lamb's ? The 
difference between those who speak with 
natural reality, and those who go through 



life fitting their second-hand ideas to other 
people's words, is one so marked that even a 
child may tell the difference. When the 
Laureate speaks, every word comes wise, 
racy, absolutely natural, and sincere ; and 
how gladly do we listen to his delightful 
stories, full of odd humors and knowledge of 
men and women, or to his graver talk ! 
When a man has read so much and thought 
so much, it is an epitome of the knowledge 
of to-day we find in him, touched by the 
solemn strain of the poet's own gift. I once 
heard Mr. Tennyson talking to some actors, 
to no less a person indeed than to Hamlet 
himself, for after the curtain fell the whole 
play seemed to flow from off the stage into 
the box where we had been sitting, and I 
could scarcely tell at last where reality be- 
gan and Shakspeare ended. The play was 
over, and we ourselves seemed a part of it 
still ; here were the players, and our own 
prince poet, in that familiar simple voice we 
all know, explaining the art, goiug straight 
to the point in his own downright fashion, 
criticising with delicate appreciation, by the 
simple force of truth and conviction carry- 
ing all before him. " You are a good actor 
lost," one of these real actors said to 
him. 

It is a gain to the world when people are 
content to be themselves, not chipped to the 
smooth pattern of the times, but simple, 
original, and unaffected in ways and words. 
Here is a poet leading a jjoet's life ; where 
he goes there goes the spirit of his home, 
whether iu London among the crowds, or at 
Aid worth on the lonely height, or at Farring- 
ford in that beautiful bay. The last time I 
went to see him he was smoking in a top 
room in Eaton Square. It may interest an 
American public to be told that it was Dur- 
ham tobacco from North Carolina, which 
Mr. Lowell had given him. I could not but 
feel how little even circumstance itself can 
contribute to that mysterious essence of in- 
dividuality which we all recognize and love. 
In this commonplace London room, with all 
the stucco of Belgravia round about, I found 
the old dream realized, the old charm of 
youthful impression. There sat my friend 
as I had first seen him years ago among the 
clouds. 



CONTENTS. 



The present edition includes " Timbuctoo,'' the author's Cambridje University Prize Poem; Poems published in 
the London editions of 1S30 and 1833, and omitted in later editions; " Poems by Two Brothers " (Charles and Al- 
fred Tennyson) ; and a number of hiihertu uncollected Poems from various sources. 



Page 

PoKMS (Published 1S30) :— 

To the Queen 9 

Claribel 9 

Lilian 9 

Isabel 10 

Mariana 10 

To , "Clear-headed friend " 11 

Madeline 11 

Song.— The Owl 12 

Second Song. — To the same 12 

Recollections of the Arabian Nights 12 

Ode to Memory 13 

Song. —"A spirit haunts the year's last 

hours " 14 

— Adeline 14 

A Character 15 

The Poet 15 

^The Poet's Mind 15 

The Sea-Fairies 16 

The Deserted House IG 

The Dying Swan 17 

A Dirge 17 

Love and Death 17 

The Ballad of Oriana IS 

Circumstance IS 

The Merman IS 

The Mermaid 19 

Sonnet to J. M. K. 19 

Poems (Published 1832) :_ 

The Lady of Shalott 19 

Mariana iu the South 21 

.- Eleanore 22 

The Miller's Daughter 23 

Fatima 25 

(Enone 25 

The Sisters 27 

To , with the following poem 27 

The Palace of Art 27 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere 30 

The May Queen 81 

New-Year's Eve 32 

Conclusion 33 

The Lotos-Eaters 35 

Choric Song 35 

A Dream of Fair Women 36 

-^"Margaret 39 

The Blackbird 39 

The Death of the Old Year 39 

To J. S 40 

" You ask me why, the' ill at ease " 41 

" Of old sat Freedom on the heights " 41 

"Love thou thy land, with love far-brought" 41 

The Goose 42 

English Idtls and otheb Poems (Published 
1842) :— 

The Epic 43 

Morte d'Arthur 44 



Pape 

The Gardener's Daughter; or, the Pictures. 47 

Dora 49 

Audley Court 50 

Walking to the Mail 50 

Edwin Morris ; or, The Lake 51 

St. Simeon Stylites 52 

The Talking Oak 54 

Love and Duty 56 

The Golden Year 57 

Ulysses 57 

Locksley Hall 59 

Godiva 63 

The Two Voices 64 

The Day-Dream 68 

Amiihion 70 

Will Waterproof's Lyrical Monologue 71 

To , after reading a Life and Letters . 73 

Lady Clare 73 

St. Agnes 74 

Sir Galahad 75 

To E. L. on his Travels in Greece 76 

The Lord of Burleigh 76 

Edward Gray 77 

Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 77 

A Farewell 78 

The Vision of Sin 78 

" Come not, when I am dead " SO 

The Eagle 80 

"Move eastward, happy Earth, and leave ". . 80 

" Break, break, break " SO 

The Beggar Maid 81 

The Poet's Song si 

The Pkinoess : A Medley (Published 1847) 82 

In Memokiam (Published 1850) 105 

Maud, and otheu Poems (Published 1S55) :— 

Maud 129 

The Brook : an Idyl 142 

The Letters 143 

Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington 144 

The Daisy 146 

To the Rev. F. D. Maurice 147 

Will 147 

The Charge of the Light Brigade 147 

Idyls op the King (Published 1S59-1872) :— 

Dedication 148 

The Coming of Arthur 148 

Gareth and Lynette 162 

Geraint and Enid 162 

Merlin and Vivien 175 

^^ancelot and Elaine 182 

The Holy Grail 192 

Pelleas and Ettarre 198 

The Last Tournament 202 

Guinevere 202 

The Passing of Artliur 215 

To the Queen 218 



CONTENTS. 



Enoch Arden (Published 1864) 220 

Additional Poems: — 

Aylmei-'s Field 227 

Sea Dreams 232 

The Grandmother 235 

Northern Farmer 237 

Tithonus 238 

The Voyage 239 

In the Valley of Cauteretz 240 

The Flower 240 

The Islet 240 

Requiescat 240 

The Sailor-boy 240 

The Riuglet 240 

A Welcome to Alexandra 241 

Ode Buug at the Opening of the Inteina- 

tional Exhibition 241 

A Dedication 241 

The Captain : a Legend of the Navy 242 

Three Sonnets to a Coquette 242 

On a Mourner 242 

Song. — " Lady, let the rolling drums " 243 

Song. — " Home they brought him slain with 
spears " 243 

Experiments : — 

Boiidicea 243 

In Quantity 244 

Specimen of a Translation of the Iliad in 

Blank Verse 245 

On Translations of Homer 246 

MlBOKLI. ANEOUB : — 

The Northern Farmer. New Style 246 

The Victim 247 

Wages 248 

The Higher Pantheism 248 

"Flower in the Crannied Wall " 248 

Lucretius 243 

The Voice and the Peak 250 

The Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh 251 

In the Garden at Swainston 251 

Child-songs 251 

The City Child 251 

Minnie and Winnie 251 

The Window ; or, Thu Sono of tuk Wrens (Pub- 
lished 1867) :— 

On the Hill 262 

At the Window 252 

Gone ! 252 

Winter 252 

Spring 252 

The Letter 252 

No Answer 252 

No Answer 252 

The Answer 252 

Ay! 252 

When ? 252 

Marriage Morning 252 

DISCARDED POEMS. 
TiMBUOToo (Cambridge Prize Poem, 1829) 254 

PoRMS (Published in the Edition of 1830, and omit- 
ted in later editions) :— 

Elegiacs 266 

The " How " and the " Why " 256 

Supposed Confessions of a Second-rate Sen- 
sitive Mind not in Unity with Itself 25C 

The Burial of Love 258 

To , "Sainted Juliet" 25S 

Song — " I' the glooming light " 258 

Song. —"The liutwhite and the throstlecock" 258 

Song.— "Every day hath its night" 2.5S 

Nothing will Die 2.')9 

All things will Die 259 

Hero to Leander 259 



Page 

- The Mystic 260 

The Grasshopper 260 

Love, Pride, and Forgetfulness 260 

Chorus in an Unpublished Drama, written 

very early 260 

Lost Hope 261 

The Tears of Heaven 261 

Love and Sorrow 261 

To a Lady Sleeping 261 

Sonnet. — " Could I outwear " 261 

Sonnet.— "Though Night hath climbed".. 261 

Sonnet.—" Shall the hag Evil " 261 

Sonnet. — "The pallid thunderstrickeu " 261 

Love 262 

^ The Kraken 262 

English War-song 262 

National Song 262 

Dualisms 263 

We are Free 263 

o; peovTCf 263 

Por.MS (Published in the Edition of 1833, and omit- 
ted in later Editions) : — 

Sonnet. — "Mine be the strength of spirit". 263 

To , "All good things" 263 

Buonaparte 264 

Sonnets 264 

"O beauty, passing lieauty " 264 

"But were I loved " 264 

The Hesperides 264 

Rosalind 265 

Note to Rosalind 265 

Song. — "Who can say " 265 

Kate 265 

Sonnet on the Polish Insurrection 266 

Sonnet on the Russian Invasion of Poland.. 266 

Sonnet. — "As when with downcast eyes ". 266 

England and America in 1782 266 

O Darling Room 266 

To Christopher North 266 

OocASioNAL Poems: — 

No More 267 

Anacreontics 267 

A Fragment 267 

Sonnet "Me my own fate " 267 

Sonnet " Check every outflash " 267 

The Skipping-rope , 267 

The New Timon and the Poets 267 

Literary Squabbles 268 

Stanzas. —" What time I wasted" 208 

Sonnet to W. C. Macready 268 

Britons, Guard Your Own 263 

The Third of February, 1852 269 

Hands All Round 269 

The War 270 

1865-1806 270 

On a Spiteful Letter 270 

Sonnet. — Alexander 270 

Sonnet.— The Bridesmaid 270 

" My life is full of weary days " 270 

Additional verses to " God save the Queen " 271 

Sonnet. — "There are three things" 271 

Sonnet on Cambridge University 271 

Lines. — " Here often, when a child " 271 

QuEKN Mary (Published 1875) 273 

Harold (Published 1877) 308 

Show-day at Battle Abbey 308 

Poems, by Two Brotuicrs (Published 1827) : — 

Introductory Lines 329 

Stanzas 330 

" In early youth I lost my sire " 330 

Memory 330 

"Yes— there be some gay souls who never 
weep " 331 



CONTENTS. 



" Have ye not seeu the buoyiiut orb ?" 331 

The Exile's Harp 331 

" Why should we weep for those who die ?" 832 

"Religion I tho' we seem to spurn" 332 

Remorse 332 

" Ou golden evenings, when the sun " 333 

The Dell of E 333 

My Brother 333 

Antony to Cleopatra 334 

" I wander in darkness and sorrow " 334 

"To one whose hope reposed on thee ". . . . 334 

The Old Sword 335 

The Gondola 335 

" We meet no more '" 335 

Written by an Exile of Bassorah, while sail- 
ing down the Euphrates 335 

Maria to her Lute, the Gift of her Dying 

Lover 336 

The Vale of Bones 336 

To Fancy 33T 

Boyhood 337 

" Did not thy roseate lips outvie " 337 

Huntsman's Song 33S 

Persia 338 

Egypt 339 

The Druid's Prophecies 339 

Lines to one who entertained a light opin- 
ion of an eminent character 340 

Swiss Song 340 

Expedition of Nadir Shah into Hindostau.. 340 

Greece 341 

The Maid of Savoy 341 

Ignorance of Modern Egypt 341 

Midnight 341 

" In summer, when all nature glows " 342 

Scotch Song 342 

"Borne on light wings of buoyant down". 342 

Song 342 

" The stars of yon blue placid sky " 343 

Friendship 343 

On the Death of my Grandmother " 343 

"And ask ye why these s^ad tears stream?" 343 

On Sublimity 343 

The Deity 344 

The Reign of Love 345 

" 'Tis the voice of the dead " 345 

Time : an Ode 345 

God's Denunciations against Pharaoh-Ho- 

phra, or Apries 346 

"All joyous in the realms of day" 346 

The Battle-field 340 

The Thunder-storm 346 

The Grave of a Suicide 347 

On the Death of Lord Byron 347 

The Walk at Midnight 347 

Mithridates presenting Berenice with the 

Cup of Poison 348 

The Bard's Farewell 348 

Epigram 348 

Ou being asked for a simile, to illustrate the 
advantage of keeping the passions sub- 
servient to reason 348 

Epigram on a Musician 349 

The Old Chieftain 349 

ApoUonius Rhodius's Complaint 349 

The Fall of Jerusalem 349 

Lamentation of the Peruvians 350 

Short Eulogium on Homer 350 

" A sister, sweet endearing name I" 350 

" The sun goes down in the dark blue main " 351 

"Still, mute, and motionless she lies" 351 

"Oh! never may frowns and dissension 

molest" 351 

On a Dead Enemy 351 

Lines on hearing a description of the scen- 
ery of Southern America 351 

The Duke of Alva's Observation on Kings. 352 



Page 

" Ah ! yes, the lip may faintly smile " 352 

"Thou camest to thy bower, my love " 352 

To 352 

The Passions 352 

The High-priest to Alexander 353 

" The dew, with which the eaily mead is 

drest" 353 

On the Moonlight shining upon a Friend's 

Grave 353 

A Contrast 353 

Epigram 353 

The Dying Christian 353 

"Those worldly goods that, distant, seem " 354 
" How gayly sinks the gorgeous sun within 

his golden bed " 354 

" Oh I ye wild winds, that roar and rave ". . 354 

Switzerland 354 

A Glance 355 

Babylon 355 

" Oh ! were this heart of hardest steel "... 365 

The Slighted Lover 356 

" Cease, railer, cease ! unthinking man ".. . 356 

Anacreontic 356 

" In winter's dull and cheerless reign " 356 

Sunday Mobs 356 

Phrenology 357 

Love 357 

To 358 

Song 358 

Imagination 3.58 

The Oak of the North .^. 358 

Exhortation to the Greeks 360 

King Charles's Vision 360 

TuE Lover's Tale (Published 1833, 1879) 362 

The Golden Supper 369 

Ballads and othru Poems (Published 1880) : — 

To Alfred Tennyson, my Grandson 373 

The Charge of the Heavy Brigade 373 

"The Revenge" 374 

The Defence of Lucknow 375 

Dedicatory Poem to the Princess Alice. . . 375 

De Profundis 377 

Two Greetings 377 

The Human Cry 377 

The First Quarrel 377 

Rizpah 379 

The Northern Cobbler 380 

The Sisters 382 

The Village Wife ; or, The Entail 384 

Sonnet to the Rev. W. H. Brooktield 386 

In the Children's Hospital 386 

Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobhani 387 

Columbus ... 388 

The Voyage of Maeldune 390 

To Virgil 392 

Translations, etc. 

Battle of Brunauburh 392 

To the Princess Frederica of Hanover on 

her Marriage 393 

Sir John Franklin 393 

To Dante 393 

Achilles over the Trench 394 

Prefatory Sonnet to the Nineteenth Century 394 

Sonnet. — Montenegro 394 

Sonnet to Victor Hugo 394 

TuE Cup (Published 1884) 896 

TuE Faloon (Published 1884) 403 

Latkst Poems (uncollected) : — 

Despair 409 

Midnight, June 30, 1879 411 

Early Spring 411 

" Frater ave atque vale " 411 



POEMS. 



(published 1830.) 



TO THE QUEEN. 

Rf,verei>, beloved — O yon that hold 

A uobler office upou earth 

Than arms, or power of brain or birth 
Could give the warrior kings of old, 

Victoria,— since yonr Royal grace 
To one of less desert allows 
This laurel greener from the brows 

Of him that uttered nothing base; 

And should your greatness, and the cure 
That yokes with empire, yield you time 
To make demand of modern rhyme 

If aught of ancient worth be there ; 

Then— while a swee'er music wakes, 

And thro' wild March the throstle calls, 
• Where all about your palace-walls 
The sunlit almond-blossom shakes — 

Take, Madam, this poor book of song; 
For tho' the faults were thick as dust 
In vacant chambers, I could trust 

Your kindness. May you rule us long, 

And leave us rulers of your blood 

As noble till the latest day ! 

May children of our children say, 
"She wrought her people lasting good; 

"Her court was pure; her life serene; 

God gave her peace; her land reposed; 

A thousand claims to reverence closed 
In her as Mother, Wife, ■ and Queen ; 

" And statesmen at her council met 
Who knew the seasons, when to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 
The bounds of freedom wider yet 

" By shaping some august decree. 
Which kept her throne unshaken still, 
Broad based upon her people's will, 

And compassed by the inviolate sea." 
March, 1851. 



CLARIBEL. 

A MELODY. 



Where Claribel low-lieth 
The breezes pause and die. 
Letting the rose-leaves fall : 
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, 



Thick-leaved, ambrosial, 
With an ancient melody 
Of an inward agony. 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 



At eve the beetle boometh 
Athwart the thicket lone : 

At noon the wild bee hummeth 
About the moss'd headstone : 

At midnight the moon cometh, 
And looketh down alone. 



Her song the lintwhite swelleth, 
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth. 

The callow throstle lispeth, 
The slumberous wave outwelleth^ 

The babbling runnel crispeth, 
The hollow grot replieth 
Where Claribel low-lieth. 



LILIAN. 



Airy, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
When I ask her if she love me, 
Clasps her tiny hands above me. 

Laughing all she can ; 
She'll not tell me if she love me, 

Cruel little Liliau. 

2. 

When my passion seeks 

Pleasance in love-sighs 
She, looking thro' and thro' me 
Thoroughly to undo me. 

Smiling, never speaks: 

So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple 

From beneath her gather'd wimple 

Glancing with black-beaded eyes, 

Till the lightning laughters dimple 

The baby-roses in her cheeks; 
Then away she flies. 



Prythee weep. May Lilian ! 
Gayety without eclipse 

Wearieth me, May Lilian : 
Thro' my very heart it thrilleth 

When from crimson-threaded lips 
Silver-treble laughter trilleth: 

Prythee weep. May Liliau. 



10 



ISABEL.— MARIANA. 



A courage to eudure and to obey : 
A hate of gossip parlance and of sway, 
C'rown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, 
The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife. 

3. 

The mellowed reflex of a winter moon ; 

A clear stream flowing with a muddy one. 
Till iu its onward current it absorbs 
With swifter movement and in purer light 
The vexed eddies of its wny ward brother ; 
A leaning and upbearing parasite, 
Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite. 

With cluster'd flower-bells and ambrosial orbs 
Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other — 
Shadow forth thee ; — the world hath not auothei 

(Though all her fairest forms are types of thee, 

And thou of God in thy great charity) 

Of such a fluish'd chasten'd purity. 



MARIANA. 

** Mariana in the moated frrangje." 

Measure for Miasurt. 

With blackest moss the flower-plots 

Were thickly crusted, one aud all : 

The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the peach to the garden-wall. 
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange; 
Uulifted was the clinking latch ; 
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, "My life is dreary. 

He Cometh not," she said ; 
She said, "I am aweary, aweary 
I would that I were dead!" 



Praying all I can, 
If prayers will not hush thee, 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 

Fairy Lilian. 



ISABEL. 

1. 
EvEB not down-dropped nor over-bright, but fed 
With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, ^ 
Clear, without heat, undying, tended by 
Pure vestal thoughts iu the translucent fane 
Of her still spirit ; locks not wide dispread, 
Madonua-wise on either side her head ; 
Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign 
The summer calm of golden charity, 
Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood. 

Revered Isabel, the crown and head. 
The stately flower of female fortitude. 

Of perfect wifehood, and pure lowlihead. 

2. 

The intuitive decision of a bright 
And thorough-edged intellect to part 

Error from crime ; a prudence to withhold ; 

The laws of marriage character'd in gold 
Upon the blanched tablets of her heart; 
A love still burning upward, giving light 
To read those laws ; au accent very low 
In blandishment, but a most silver flow 

Of subtle-paced counsel iu distress, 
Right to the heart and brain, tho' undescried, 

Winning its way with extreme gentleness 
Thro' all the outworks of suspicions pride; 




' Her tears fell with the dews at even , 
Her tears fell ere ihe dews were dried." 



TO 



-.—MADELINE. 



H 



Her tears fell with the dews at even • 

Her tears fell ere the clews were dr'.ecl ; 
She could not look on the sweet heaven, 

Either at morn or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats, 
When thickest dark did trance the sky, 
She drew her casement-curtain by. 
And glanced athwart the glooming flats, 
siie only said, "The night is dreary. 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, "I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead !" 

Upon the middle of the uight. 

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: 
The cock sung out an hour ere light : 

From the dark fen the oxen's low- 
Came to her: without hope of change, 
In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, 
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, "The day is dreary. 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, "I am aweary, aweary, 
1 would that I were dead 1" 

About a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blackeu'd waters slept, 
And o'er it many, round and small. 
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. 
Hard by a poplar shook alway. 
All silver-green with gnarled bark: 
For leagues no other tree did mark 
The level waste, the roimdiug gray. 
She only said, "My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said ; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead !" 

And ever when the moon was low, 

And the shrill winds were up and away, 
In the white curtain, to and fro. 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low. 
And wild wiuds bound within their cell, 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, "The night is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 
She said, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead !" 

All day within the dreamy house. 

The doors upon their hinges creak'd ; 
The blue fly sung in the pane ; the mouse 

Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd. 
Or from the crevice peered about. 
Old faces glimmered thro' the doors, 
Old footsteps trod the upper flocrs, 
Old voices called her from without. 
She only said, "My life is dreary, 

He cometh not," she said; 
She sa'.d, " I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead !" 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof. 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 

Tne poplar made, did all confound 

Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour 

When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 

Athwart the chambers, and the day 

\V^as sloping toward his western bower. 

Then said she, "I am very dreary, 

He will not come," she said; 
She wept, " I am aweary, aweary, 
O God, that I were dead !" 



TO 



Ct.EAR-HEAT)Ei> friend, whose joyful scorn. 
Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwaiu 
The knots that tangle human creeds. 
The wounding cords that bind and strain 
The heart until it bleeds, 
Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn 

Roof not a glance so keen as thine: 
If aught of prophecy be mine, 
Thou wilt not live in vain. 



Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit. 
Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow : 
Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now 

With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. 

Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords 
Can do away that ancient lie; 
A gentler death shall Falsehood die, 

Sh»)t thro' and thro' with cunning words. 

3. 
Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch. 

Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need, 
'Thy kingly intellect shall feed. 
Until she be an athlete bold. 
And weary with a Auger's touch 
Those writhed limbs of lightning speei ; 

Like that strange angel which of old. 
Until the breaking of the light. 
Wrestled with wandering Israel, 

Past Yabbok brook the livelong night. 
And heaven's mazed signs stood still 
In the dim tract of Peuuel. 



MADELINE. 



Tuoc art not steeped in golden languors, 
No tranced summer calm is thine. 

Ever varying Madeline. 
Thro' light and shadow thou dost range 
Sudden glances, sweet and strange, 

Delicious spites and darling angers. 
And airy forms of flitting change. 



Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
Thou art perfect in love-lore. 
Revealings deep and clear are thiue 
Of wealthy smiles ; but who may know 
Whether smile or f^'own be fleeter? 
Whether smile or frown he sweeter. 

Who may know? 
Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow 
Light-glooming over eyes divine. 
Like little clouds, sun-fringed, are thine. 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thy smile and frown are not aloof 
From one another, 
Each to each is dearest brother; 
Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
Momently shot into each other. 
All the mystery is thiue ; 
Smiling, frowning, evermore. 
Thou art perfect in love-lore. 
Ever varying Madeline. 

3. 

A subtle, sudden flame. 
By veering passion fann'd. 

About thee breaks and dances 
When I would kiss thy hand, 



12 



SONGS.— RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 



The flush of anger'd shame 

O'erflows thy calmer glances, 

And o'er black brows drops down 

A sudden-curved frown, 

But when I turn away. 

Thou, willing me to stay, 
Wooest not, nor vainly wrauglest •, 

But, looking fixedly the while, 
All my bounding heart entauglest 
In a goldeu-netted smile; 

Then in madness and in bliss. 

If my lips should dare to kiss 

Thy taper fingers amorously. 

Again thou blushest angerly; 

And o'er black brows drops down 

A sudden-curved frown. 



SONG.— THE OWL. 



WuEN cats run home and light is come, 

And dew is cold upon the ground, 

And the far-off stream is dumb, 

And the whirring sail goes round, 

And the whirring sail goes round; 

Alone and warming his five wits, 

The white owl iu the belfry site- 



When merry milkmaids click the latcb, 
And rarely smells the new-mowu hay. 
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch 
Twice or thrice his roundelay. 
Twice or thrice his roundelay : 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 



SECOND SONG. 

TO THE SAMIi. 
1. 

Thy tuwhits are luli'd I wot. 

Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, 
Which upon the dark afloat, 
So took echo with delight, 
So took echo with delight, 
That her voice untuneful grown, 
Wears all day a fainter tone. 



I would mock thy chaunt anew , 

But I Gaunot mimic it ; 
Kot a whit of thy tuwhoo. 
Thee to woo to thy tuwhit. 
Thee to woo to thy tiiwhit. 
With a lengthen'd loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN 
NIGHTS. 

When the breeze of a joyful dawu blew free 

In the silken sail of infancy, 
The tide of time flow'd back with me. 

The forward-flowing tide of time : 
And many a sheeny summer morn, 
Adowu the Tigris I was boime, 
By Biigdat's shrines of fretted gold, 
High-walled t,'ardeus green and old; 
True Mussulman was I and sworn. 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



Anight my shallop, rustling thro' 
The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove 
The citron-shadows in the blue ; 
By garden porches on the brim. 
The costly doors flung open wide. 
Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, 
And broider'd sofas on each side: 
In sooth it was a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid, 

Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guarA 
The outlet, did I turn away 
The boat-head down a broad canal 
From the main river sluiced, where all 
The sloping of the moon-lit sward 
Was damask-work, and deep inlay 
Of braided blooms uumowu, which crept 
Adown to where the water slept. 
A goodly place, a goodly time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, beariug on 
My shallop thro' the star-strown calm, 
Until another night iu night 
I enter'd, from the clearer light, 
Imbower'd vanits of pillar'd palm. 
Imprisoning sweets, which as they clomb 
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome 
Of hollow boughs.— A goodly time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Still onward ; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical. 
Thro' little crystal arches low 
Down from the central fountain's flow 
Fall'n silver-chiming, seem'd to shake 
The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 
A goodly place, a goodly time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Above thro' many a bowery turn 
A walk with vary-color'd shells 
Wander'd engrain'd. On either side 
All round about the fragrant marge 
From fluted vase, and brazeu urn 
In order, eastern flowers large, 
Some dropping low their crimson bells 
Half-closed, and others studded wide 
With disks and tiars, fed the time 
With odor in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Far off, and where the lemon-grove 
In closest coverture upsprung. 
The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bulbul as he snug ; 
Not he: but something which possess'd 
The darkness of the world, delight, 
Life, anguish, death, immortal love. 
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd, 
Apart from place, withholding time, 
But flattering the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Black the garden-bowers and grots 
Slumber'd: the solemn palm.'* were ranged 
Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : 
A sudden splendor from behind 
Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold-green, 
And, flowing rapidly between 



ODE TO MEMORY. 



13 



Their interspaces, counterchanged 

Tlie level laite with diamoud-plots 

Of darli and bright. A lovely time, 

For it was in the golden prime 

Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, 
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, 
Grew darker from that uuder-flame: 
So, leaping lightly from the boat. 
With silver anchor left afloat, 
In marvel whence that glory came 
Upon me, as in sleep I sank 
In cool soft turf upon the bank, 
Entranced with that place and time, 
So worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — 
A realm of pleasance, many a mound. 
And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn 
Full of the city's stilly sound. 
And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round 
The stately cedar, tamarisks. 
Thick rosaries of scented thorn. 
Tall orient shrubs, and obeli^<ks 

Graven with emblems of the time, 

In honor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

With dazed vision unawares 
From the long alley's latticed shade 
Emerged, I came upon the great 
Pavilion of the Caliphat. 
Right to the carveu cedarn doors, 
Flung inward over spangled floors. 
Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
Ran up with golden balustrade. 
After the fashion of the time. 
And humor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of flame, 
A million tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers look'd to shame 
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of night nevy-risen, that marvellous time. 

To celebrate the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Then stole I up, and trancedly 
Gazed on the Persian girl alone. 
Serene with argent-lidded eyes 
Amorous, and lashes like to rays 
Of darkness, and a brcjw of pearl 
Tressed with redolent ebony. 
In many a dark delicious curl. 
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone ; 
The sweetest lady of the time, 
Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Six columns, three on either side. 

Pure silver, underpropt a rich 

Throne of the massive ore, from which 

Down-droop'd in many a floating fold, 

Eugarlanded and diaper'd 

With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. 

Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd 

With merriment of kingly pride. 
Sole star of all that place and time, 
I saw him— in his golden prime. 
The Good Haroun Alraschid ! 



ODE TO MEMORY. 

1. 

Tnon who stealest Are, 

From the fountains of the past, 
To glorify the present ; oh, haste, 

Visit ray low desire ! 
Strengthen me, enlighten me ! 
I faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



Come not as thou camest of late. 
Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
On the white day ; but robed in soften'd light 

Of orient state. 
Whilome thou camest with the morning mist. 

Even as a maid, whose stately brow 
The dew-inipearled winds of dawn have kiss'd, 

When she, as thou. 
Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight 
Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots 
Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, 
Which in wintertide shall star 
The black earth with brilliance rare. 

3. 

Whilome thou camest with the morning mist. 

And with the evening cloud. 
Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast, 
(Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind 

Never grow sere. 
When rooted in the garden of the mind. 

Because they are the earliest of the year). 
Nor was the night thy shroud. 
In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest 
Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope. 
The eddying of her garments caught from thee 
The light of thy great presence ; and the cope 

Of the half-attain'd futurity. 

Though deep not fathomless. 
Was cloven with the million stars which tremble 
O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. 
Small thought was there of life's distress ; 
For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could dull 
Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful 
Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres, 
Listening the lordly music flowing from 
The illimitable years. 

strengthen me, enlighten me! 

1 faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 

4. 
Come forth I charge thee, arise. 
Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes! 
Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines 

Unto mine inner eye, 

Divinest Memory ! 
Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall 
Which ever sounds and shines 

A pillar of white light upon the wall 
Of purple cliff's, aloof descried: 
Come from the woods that belt the gray hillside 
The seven elms, the poplars four 
That stand beside my fathe'-'s door. 
And chiefly from the brook that loves 
To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, 
Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves. 
Drawing into his narrow earthen urn. 

In every elbow and turn. 
The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland. 

O I hither lead thy feet ! 
Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat 
Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds, 

Upon the ridged wolds. 



14 



SONG.— ADELINE. 



When the first matin-song hath waken'd loud 

Over the clurk dewy earth forlorn, 

What time the amber morn 

Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. 



LMrgo dowries doth the raptured eye 

To the young spirit present 
When first she is wed ; 

And like a bride of old 
In triumph led, 

With music and sweet showers 
Of festal flowers, 
Unto the dwelling she must sway. 
Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, 

In setting round thy first experiment 
With royal frame-work of wrought gold ; 
Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay. 
And foremost in thy various gallery 

Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls 

Upon the storied walls ; 
For the discovery 
And newness of thine art so pleased thee, 
Tliat all wliich thou hast drawn of fairest 

Or boldest since, but lightly weighs 
With thee unto the love thou bearest 
The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like, 
Ever retiring tliou dost gaze 
On the prime labor of thine early days : 
No matter what the sketch might be; 
Whether the high field on the bushless Pike, 
Or even a sand-built ridge 
Of heaped hills that mound the sea. 
Overblown with murmurs harsh. 
Or even a lowly cottage whence we see 
Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous marsh. 
Where from the frequent bridge, 
Like emblems of infinity. 
The trenched waters run from sky to sky ; 
Or a garden bower'd close 
With plaited alloys of the trailing rose, 
Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, 
Or opening upon level plots 
Of crowned lilies, standing near 
Purple-spiked lavender ; 
Whither in after life retired 
From brawling storms, 
From weary wind. 
With youthful fancy reinspired, 
We may hold converse with all forms 
Of the many-sided mind. 
And those whom passion hath not blinded, 
Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded, 
My friend, with you to live alone. 
Were how much better than to own 
A crown, a sceptre, and a throne 1 

strengthen me, enlighten me 1 

1 faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



SONG. 

1 

A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours 
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: 

To himself he talks; 
For at eventide, listening earnestly, 
At his W(n-k you may hear him sob and sigh 

In the walks ; 

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks 
Of the mouldering flowers : 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave 1' the earth so chilly; 
ll«avily hangs the hollyhock. 

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, 

As a sick man's room when he taketh repose 

An liour before death ; 
My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves 
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves^ 

And the breath 

Of the fading edges of box beneath. 
And the year's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly. 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock. 

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



ADELINE. 

1. 
Mystery of mysteries. 

Faintly smiling Adeline, 
Scarce of earth nor all divine, 
Nor unhappy, nor at rest, 
But beyond expression fair 
With thy floating flaxen hair; 
Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 

Take the heart from out my breast. 
Wherefore those ddni looks of thine, 
Sliadowy, dreaming Adeline? 



Whence that aevy bloom of thine. 

Like a lily which the sun 
Looks thro' in his sad decline. 

And a rose-bush leans upon, 
Thou that faintly smilest still, 

As a Naiad in a well. 

Looking at the set of day. 
Or a i)hantom two hours old 

Of a maiden past away, 
Ere the placid lips l)e cold? 
Wheref()re those fyiiit smiles of tniue. 

Spiritual Adeline? 

3. 
What hope or fear or joy is thine? 
Who talkcth with thee, Adeline? 
Fin' sure thou art not all alone : 

Do beating hearts of salient springs 
Keep measure with thine own? 
Hast thou heard the butterflies, 
What they say betwixt their wings? 
Or in stillest evenings 
With what voice the violet woos 
To his heart the silver dews? 
Or when little airs arise. 
How the merry bluebell rings 
To the mosses underneath? 
Hast thou look'd upon the breath 
Of the lilies at sunrise? 
Wherefore that faint smile of thine. 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline? 



Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, 
Some spirit of a crimson rose 
in love with thee forgets to close 
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs 
All night long on darkness blind. 
What aileth thee? whom waitest thou 
With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, 

And those dew-lit eyes of thine. 
Thou faint smiler, Adeline ? 

5. 

Lovest thou the doleful wind 

When thou gazest at the skies? 



A CHARACTER.— THE POET.— THE POETS MIND. 



Doth the low-tongued Orient 
Wiimler fnuii the side of the nioru, 
Drippiiif? with Sahienn spice 
On thy piHow, lowly bent 

With melodious airs lovelorn, 
Breathincr Li>;ht against thy face, 
Wliile his locks a-dropping twined 
Round thy neck in subtle ring 
Make a carcanet of rays, 

And ye talk together still, 
lu the language wherewith Spring 
Letters cowslips on the hill? 
Hence that look and smile of thine, 
Spiritual Adeline. 



A CHARACTER. 

With a half-glance upon the sky 
At night he said, "The wanderings 
Of this most intricate Universe 
Teach me the nothingness of things." 
Yet could not all creation pierce 
Beyond the bottom of his eye. 

He spake of beauty: that the dull 

Saw no divinity in grass. 

Life in dead stones, or spirit in air; 

Tlien looking as 't were in a glass, 

He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his hair, 

And said the earth was beautiful. 

He spake of virtue : not the gods 
More purely, when they wish to charm 
Pallas and Juno sitting by: 
And with a sweeping of the arm. 
And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, 
Devolred his rounded periods. 

Most delicately hour by hour 
He canvassed human mysteries, 
And trod on silk, as if the winds 
Blew his own praises in his eyes, 
And stood aloof from other minds 
In impotence of fancied power. 

With lips depressed as he were meek. 
Himself unto himself he sold: 
Upon himself himself did feed: 
Quiet, dispassionate, and cold. 
And other than his form of creed. 
With chisell'd features clear and sleek. 



THE POET. 

Tar. poet in a golden clime was born. 

With golden stars above ; 
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, 
The love of love. 

He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill 

He saw thro' his own soul. 
The marvel of the everlasting will. 
An open scroll, 

Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded 

The secretest walks of fame: 
The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed 
And wing'd with flame. 

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue. 

And of so fierce a flight. 
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung. 
Filling with light 

2 



And vagrant melodies the winds which bore 

Them earthward till they lit; 
Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower. 
The fruitful wit 

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew, 

Where'er they fell, behold. 
Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew 
A flower all gold. 

And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling 

The winged shafts of truth, 
To throng with stately blooms the breathing sprint 
Of Hope and Youth. 

So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, 

Tho' one did fling the fire. 
Heaven flow'd ujion the soul in many dreams 
Of high desire. 

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world 

Like one great garden show'd, 
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark ujicurl'd. 
Rare sunrise flow'd. 

And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise 

Her I)eautiful bold brow. 
When rites and forms before his burning eyes 
Melted like snow. 

There was no blood upon her maiden robes 

Sunn'd by those orient skies : 
But round about the circles of the globes 
Of her keen eyes 

And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame 

Wisdom, a name to shake 
All evil dreams of power — a sacred namci 
And when she spake. 

Her words did gather thunder as they ran. 

And as the lightning to the thunder 
Wliich follows it, riving the spirit of man, 
Making earth wonder. 

So was their meaning to her words. No sword 

Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, 
But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word 
She shook the world. 



THE POET'S MIND. 



Vex not thon the poet's mind 

With thy shallow wit : 
Vex not thou the poet's mind ; 

For thou canst not fathom it. 
Clear and bright it should be ever. 
Flowing like a crystal river ; 
Bright as light, and clear as wind. 

2. 
Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear; 

All the place is holy ground ; 
Hollow smile and frozen sneer 

Come not here. 
Holy water will I pour 
Into every spicy flower 
Of tho hiurel-slirubs that hedge it around. 
The flowers would faint at your cruel checr. 
In your eye there is death, 
There is frost in your breath 
Which would blight the plants. 
Where you stand you cannot hear 
From the groves within 
The wild-bird's din. 



THE SEA-FAIRIES.— THE DESERTED HOUSE. 



In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants, 
It would fall to the ground if you came in. 

In the middle leaps a fountain 
Like sheet lightning, 
Ever brightening 

With a low melodious thunder ; 
All day and all night it is ever drawn 

From the brain of the purple mountain 

Which stands in the distance yonder : 
It springs on a level of bowery lawn, 
And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, 
And it sings a song of undying love ; 
And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full, 
You never would hear it ; your ears are so dull ; 
.So keep where you are : you are foul v^'ith sin ; 
It would shrink to the earth if you came in. 



THE SEA-FAIRIES. 

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw, 
Betwiyt the green briuk and the running foam, 
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest 
To little harps of gold ; and while they mused, 
Whispering to each other half in lear, 
Shrill music reach'd them on the middle sea. 

Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly no 

more. 
Whither away from the high green field, and the 

happy blossoming shore ? 
Day and night to the l)illow the fountain calls ; 
Down shower the gambolling waterfalls 
Prom wandering over the lea : 
Out of the live-green heart of the dells 
They freshen the silvery-crimson shells. 
And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells 
High over the full-toned sea: 
() hither, come hither and furl your sails, 
Come hither to me and to me : 
Hither, come hither and frolic and play ; 
Here it is only the mew that wails ; 
We will sing to you all the day: 
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, 



For here are the blissful downs and dales, 
And merrily merrily carol the gales. 
And the spangle dances in bight and bay. 
And the rainbow forms and flies on the land 
Over the islands free ; 

And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand ; 
Hither, come hither and see ; 
And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, 
And sweet is the color of cove and cave, 
And sweet shall your welcome be: 
O hither, come hither, and be our lords, 
For merry brides are we : 

We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words = 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee: 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
When the sharp clear twaug of the golden chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Who can light on as happy a shore 
All the world o'er, all the world o'er ? 
Whither away? listen and stay: mariner, mariner 
fly no more. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 

]. 
Life and Thought have gone away 
Side by side. 
Leaving door and windows wide. 
Careless tenants they ! 

2. 
All within is dark as night: 
In the windows is no light; 
And no murmur at the door. 
So frequent on its hinge before. 



Close the door, the shutters close, 
Or thro' the windows we shall 
The nakedness and vacancy 

Of the dark deserted house. 







'* Life and Thought have gone away 
Side bv aide." 



THE DYING SWAN.— A DIRGE.— LOVE AND DEATH. 



Come away : no more of mirth 

Is here or merry-making sound. 

The house was buikled of the earth, 
And shall fall again to ground. 



Come away: for Life and Thought 
Here no longer dwell ; 
But in a city glorious — 
A great and distant city— have bought 
A mansion incori'uptible. 
Would they could have sta3'ed with us 1 



THE DYING SWAN. 



The plain was gi'assy, wild and bare, 
Wide, wild, and open to the air, 

Which had built up everywhere 
An under-roof of doleful gray. 

With an inner voice the river ran, 

Adown it floated a dying swan. 
And loudly did lament. 
It was the middle of the day. 

Ever the weary wind went on. 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 



Some blue peaks in the distance rose. 
And white against the cold-white sky. 
Shone out their crowning snows. 

One willow over the river wept, 
And shook the wave as the wind did sigh ; 
Above in the wind was the swallow. 
Chasing itself at its own wild will. 
And far thro' the marish green and still 

The tangled water-courses slept. 
Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. 

3. 

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul 

Of that waste place with joy 

Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear 

The warble was low, and full and clear; 

And floating about the under-sky, 

Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole ; 

Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear. 

But anon her awfii'. Jubilant voice. 

With a music strange and manifold, 

Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; 

As when a mighty people rejoice. 

With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, 

And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd 

Thro' the open gates of the city afar, 

To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. 

And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds. 

And the willow-branches hoar and dank. 

And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, 

And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank. 

And the silvery marish-flowers that throng 

The desolate creeks and pools among. 

Were flooded over with eddying song. 



A DIRGE. 

1. 
Now is done thy long day's work ; 
Fold thy palms across thy breast. 
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 
Let them rave. 



Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds thy grave. 
Lei them rave. 



Thee nor carketh care nor slander; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed; 
Chanteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones than calumny ? 

Let them rave. 
Thou wilt never raise thine head 
From the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



Crocodiles wept tears for thee; 

The woodbine and eglatere 

Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 

Let them rave. 
Rain makes music in the tree 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rav€. 



Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, 
Bramble-roses, faint and pale. 
And long purples of the dale. 

Let them rave. 
These in every shower creep 
Thro' the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

6. 

The gold-eyed kingcups fine; 
The frail bluebell peereth over 
Rare broidry of the purple clover. 

Let them rave. 
Kings have no such couch a? thiro, 
As the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

r. 

Wild words wander here and there; 
God's great gift of speech abused 
Makes thy memory confused : 

But let them rave. 
The balm-cricket carols clear 
In the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 

What time the mighty moon was gathering light 

Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, 

And all about him roll'd his lustrous eyes ; 

When, turning round a cassia, full in view 

Death, walking all alone beneath a yew. 

And talking to himself, first met his sight: 

"You must begone," said Death, "these walks are 

mine." 
Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for flight ; 
Yet ere he parted said, "This hour is thine: 
Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree 
Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, 
So in the light of great eternity 
Life eminent creates the shade of death ; 
The shadow pnsseth when the tree shall fall, 
But I shall reigu forever over alL" 



18 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA.— CIRCUMSTANCE.— THE MERMAN. 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 

My heart is wasted with my woe, 

Oriaua. 
There is no rest for me below, 

Oriaua. 
When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, 
And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone I wander to and fro, 

OriaTia. 

Ere the light on dark was growing, 

Oriana, 
At midnight the cock was crowing, 

Oriaua : 
Winds were blowing, waters flowing, 
We heard the steeds to battle going, 

Oriana ; 
Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 

Oriaua. 

In the yew-wood black as night, 

Oriana, 
Ere I rode into the fight, 

Oriaua, 
While blissl'ul tears blinded my sight 
By star-shine and by moonlight, 

Oriaua, 
I to thee my troth did plight, 

Oriaua. 

She stood upon the castle wall, 

Oriaua : 
She watch'd my crest among them all, 

Oriana : 
She saw me fight, she heard me call, 
When forth there stept a foemau tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween me and the castle wall, 

Oriana. 

The bitter arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 
The false, false arrow went aside, 

Oriaua : 
The damned arrow glanced aside, 
And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, 

Oriana ! 
Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, 

Oriana ! 

Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space, 

Oriaua. 
Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, 

Oriana. 
Oh ! deathfnl stabs were dealt apace. 
The battle deepeu'd in its place, 

Oriaua ; 
But I was down upon my face, 

Oriana. 

They shonld have stabb'd me where I lay, 

Oriaua ! 
How could I rise aud come away, 

Oriana ? 
How could I look upon the day? 
They should have stabb'd me where I lay, 

Oriana — 
They should have trod me into clay, 

Oriaua. 

O breaking heart that will not break, 

Oriaua ! 
O pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 

Oriana ! 
Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak. 
And then the tears run down my cheek, 

Oriana : 



What wantest thou ? whom dost thou seek, 
Oriana? 

I cry aloud : none hear my cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou comest atween me and the skias, 

Oriana. 
I feel the tears of blood arise 
Up from my heart unto my eyes, 

Oriaua. 
Within thy heart my arrow lies, 

Oriaua. 

O cursed hand ! O cursed blow ! 
Oriaua ! 

happy thou that liest low, 

Oriaua ! 
All night the silence seems to flow 
Beside me in my utter woe, 

Oriana. 
A weary, weary way I go, 

Oriana. 

When Norland wiuds pipe down the sea, 
Oriana, 

1 walk, I dare not think of thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, 
I dare not die aud come to thee, 

Oriaua. 
I hear the roaring of the sea, 

Oriana. 



CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two children in two neighbor villages 
Playing mad pranks along the healthy leas ; 
Two strangers meeting at a festival ; 
Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall ; 
Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease; 
Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower 
Wash'd with still rains aud daisy-blossomed : 
Two children in one hamlet born and bred ; 
So runs the round of life from hour to hour. 



THE MERMAN. 

1. 

Who would be 
A merman bold. 
Sitting alone. 
Singing alone 
Under the sea. 
With a crown of gold. 
On a throne? 

2. 
I would be a merman bold ; 
I would sit and sing the whole of the day ; 
I M'ould fill the sea-halls with a voice of power 
But at night I would roam abroad aud play 
With the mermaids in aud out of the rocks. 
Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower; 
Aud holding them back by their flowing locks 
I would kiss them often under the sea, 
Aud kiss them again till thoy kiss'd me 

Laughingly, laughingly ; 
And then we would wander away, away 
To the pale-green sea-groves straight aud high, 
Chasing each other merrily. 

3. 
There wotild be neither moon nor star- 
But the wave would make music above us afar- 
Low thunder and light in the magic night— 
Neither moon nor star. 



THE MERMAID.— SONNET TO J. M. K.— THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



1!) 



We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, 
Call to each other and whoop aud cry 

All uight, merrily, merrily ; 
They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells, 
Laughing and clapping their hands between, 

All uight, merrily, merrily: 
But I would throw to them back in mine 
Turkis and agate and almondine : 
Then leaping out upon them unseen 
I would kiss them often under the sea. 
And kiss them again till they kiss'd me 

Laughingly, laughingly. 
Oil ' what a happy lil'e were mine 
Under the hoDow-hung ocean green ! 
Soft are the moss-beds under the sea; 
We would live merrily, merrily. 



THE MERMAID. 

1. 
Wno would be 
A mermaid fair, 
Singing alone, 
Combing her hair 
Under the sea. 
In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl. 
On a throne ? 

2. 
I would be a mermaid fair; 
I would sing to myself the whole of the day; 
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair ; 
And still as I comb'd I would sing and say, 
"Who is it loves me? who loves not me?" 
I would comb my hair till my ringlets would foil. 
Low adown, low adown, 
From under my starry sea-bud crown 

Low adown and around, 
Aud I should look like a fountain of gold 
Springing alone 
With a shrill inner sound. 

Over the throne 
In the midst of the hall : 
Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
Round the ball where I sate, aud look in at the gate 



With his large calm eyes for the love of me. 
And all the mermen under the sea 
Would feel their immortality 
Die iu their hearts for the love of me. 



But at night I would wander away, away, 
I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks, 

Aud lightly vault from the throne and play 
With the mermen iu and out of the rocks ; 

We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, 
On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells, 
Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. 

But if any came near I would call, and shriek. 

And adown the steep like a wave I would leap 
From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells ; 

For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list. 

Of the bold merry mermen under the sea ; 

They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me. 

In the purple twilights under the sea ; 

But the king of them all would carry me. 

Woo me, and win me, and marry me. 

In the branching jaspers under the sea; 

Then all the dry pied things that be 

In the hueless mosses under the sea 

Would curl round my silver feet silently. 

All looking up for the love of me. 

Aud if I should carol aloud, from aloft 

All things that are forked, and horned, and soft 

Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the soa. 

All looking down for the love of me. 



SONNET TO J. M. K. 

Mt hope and heart is with thee— thou wilt be 

A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest 

To scare church-harpies from the master's feast: 

Our dusted velvets have much need of thee ; 

Thou art no Sabbath-drawler of old saws, 

Distill'd from some worm-canker'd homily ; 

But spurr'd at heart with fleriest energy 

To embattail and to wall about thy cause 

With iron-worded proof, hating to hark 

The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone 

Half God's good Sabbath, while the worn-out clerk 

Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne 

Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark 

Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark. 



POEMS. 

(Published 1832.) 

[This division of this volume was published in the winter of 1832. Some of the poems ha 
added, which, with one exception, were written in 1833.] 



! been considerahlv altered. Others have been 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 



PART I. 



On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye. 
That clothe the wold and meet the sky; 
And thro' the fleld the road runs by 

To many-towered Camelot ; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below. 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver. 
Little breezes dusk and shiver 



Thro' the wave that runs forever 
By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 
Overlook a space of flowers, 
And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veil'd. 
Slide the heavy barges trail'd 
By slow horses ; aud unhail'd 
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot: 
But who hath seen her wave her hand i 
Or at the casement seen her stand ? 
Or is she known in all the laud. 

The Lady of Shalott? 



20 



THE LADY OF SIIALOTT. 




13 come upon me, 
The Lady of Sbalott.' 



Only reapers, reapiiij? early 
In among the bearded barley. 
Hear a song that, echoes cheerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower'd Camelot : 
And by the moon the reaper weary. 
Piling sheaves In uplands airy. 
Listening, whispers, "'Tis the fairy 

Lady of Shalott." 



PART II. 

There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colors gay. 
She has heard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the enrse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other care hath she. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year. 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot: 
There the river eddy whirls. 
And there the surly village-chnrls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls,- 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an ambling pad. 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad. 
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad. 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot; 



And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two; 
She hath no loyal knight and true. 
The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights, 

And music, went to Camelot: 
Or when the moon was overhead. 
Came two young lovers lately wed; 
"I am half-sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalott. 



PART III. 
A BOW-8UOT from her bower-eaves. 
He rode between the barley-sheaves. 
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 
And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
A redcross knight forever kneeled 
To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkled on the yellow field. 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Gala.xy. 
The bridle bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot: 
And from his blazon'd baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armor rung. 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the bine unclouded weather 
Thick-jewell'd shoue the saddle-leather. 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 



The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burned like one burning flame together, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
A? often thro' the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright, 
borne bearded meteor, trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd ; 
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode ; 
Prom underneath his helmet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flashed into the crystal mirror, 
" Tirru lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom. 
She made three paces thro' the room, 
She saw the water-lily bloom. 
She saw the helmet aud the plume, 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide .- 
The mirror crack'd from side to side ; 
" The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 

PART IV. 

In the stormy east-wind straining, 
The pale yellow woods were waning. 
The broad stream in his banks complaiuiuj 
Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camelot ; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat, 
And round about the prow she wrote 

T.'ie Ladij of Hhalult. 

And down the river's dim expanse- 
Like some bold seer in a trance, 
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay ; 
The broad stream bore her far away. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noi:?es of the night 

She floated down to Camelot : 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willow hills and fields among. 
They heard her singing her last song. 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mouniful, holy. 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 
Till her blood was frozen slowly, 
And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot ; 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side, 
Singing in her song she died, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Uuder tower and balcony. 
By garden-wall and gallery, 
A gleaming shape she floated by, 
A corse between the houses high. 

Silent into Camelot, 
Out upon the wharfs they came, 
Knight aud burgher, lord and dame, 
And round the prow they read her name. 

The. Lady of Shalott. 



Who is this? and what is here? 
And in the lighted palace near 
Died the, sound of royal cheer: 
And they cross'd themselves for fear, 

All the knights at Camelot : 
But Lancelot mused a little space. 
He said, " She has a lovely face : 
God in his mercy lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalott." 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 

WtTii one black shadow at its feet, 

The house thro' all the level shines. 
Close-latticed to the brooding heat, 

Aud silent in its dusty vines: 
A faint-blue ridge upon the right, 
An empty river-bed before. 
And shallows on a distant shore, 
In glaring sand and inlets bright. 
But "Ave Mary," made she moan, 

And " Ave Mary," night and morn. 

And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone. 

To live forgotten, aud love forlorn," 

She, as her carol sadder grew. 

From brow and bosom slowly down 
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest brown 
To left aud right, and made appear. 
Still-lighted in a secret shriue. 
Her melancholy eyes divine, 
The home of woe without a tear. 
And "Ave Mary," was her moan, 

"Madonna, sad is night and morn ;" 

And " Ah," she sang, "to be all alone. 

To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

Till all the crimson changed, and past 

Into deep orauge o'er the sea. 
Low on her kuees herself she cast. 
Before Our Lady murmur'd she ; 
Complaining, "Mother, give me grace 
To help me of my weary load," 
And on the liquid mirror glow'd 
The clear perfection of her face. 

"Is this the form," she made her mean, 

"That won his praises night and moru : 
And "Ah," she said, "but I wake alone, 
I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn." 

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb wonld bleat, 

Nor any cloud would cross the vault. 
But day increased from heat to heat. 

On stony drought and steatning salt ; 
Till now at noon she slept again. 
And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass, 
And heard her native breezes pass. 
And runlets babbling down the gleu. 
She breathed in sleep a lower moan. 

And murmuring, as at night and morn. 
She thought, "My spirit is here aloue, 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn." 

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : 
She felt he was and was not there. 
She woke : the babble of the stream 
Fell, and without the steady glare 
Shrank one sick willow sere and small. 
The river-bed was dusty-white ; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 
She whisper'd, with a stifled moan 

More inward than at night or morn, 
" Sweet Mother, let me not here aloue 
Live forgotten and die forlorn." 



22 



ELEANORE, 



And, rising, from her bosom drew 

Old letters, breathing of her worth, 
For " Love," they said, " must needs be true, 

To what is loveliest upon earth." 
An image seem'd to pass the door. 
To look at her with slight, and say, 
"But now thy beauty flows away, 
So be alone forevermore." 

"O cruel heart," she changed her tone, 
"And cruel love, whose end is scorn. 
Is this the end to be left alone. 
To live forgotten, and die forlorn !" 

But sometimes in the falling day 

An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look iuto her eyes and say, 

" But thou Shalt be aloue no more." 
And flaming downward over all 
From heat to heat the day decreased. 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 

" The day to night," she made her moau, 
"The day to night, the night to morn. 
And day and night I am left alone 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 

At eve a dry cicala sung, 

There came a sound as of the sea ; 
Backward the latticed-blind she flung, 

And lean'd upon the balcony. 
There all in spaces rosy-bright 
Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears. 
And deepening through the silent spheres. 
Heaven over Heaven rose the night. 

And weeping then she made her moan, 

" The night comes on that knows not morn. 
When I shall cease to be all alone. 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn." 



ELEANORE. 
1. 

Thy dark eyes open'd not. 

Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air. 

For there is nothing here. 
Which, from the outward to the inward brought, 
IVIoulded thy baby thought. 
Far off from human neighborhood, 

Thou wert born, ou a summer morn, 
A mile beneath the cedar-wood. 
Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd 

With breezes from our oaken glades. 
But thou wert nursed in some delicious land 

Of lavish lights, and floating shades: 
And flattering thy childish thought 

The oriental fairy brought. 
At the moment of thy birth. 
From old well-heads of haunted rills. 
And the hearts of purple hills. 

And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore. 
The choicest wealth of all the earth. 

Jewel or shell, or starry ore. 

To deck thy cradle, Elefmore. 



Or the yellow-banded bees. 
Thro' half-open lattices 
Coming in the scented breeze. 
Fed thee, a child, lying alone. 

With whitest honey in fairy gardens cull'd- 
A glorious child, dreaming alone. 
In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, 
IVith the hum of swarming bees 
Into dreamful slumber lull'd. 



Who may minister to thee ? 

iJummer herself should minister 

To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded 
Ou golden salvers, or it may be. 

Youngest Autumn, in a bower 

Grape-thicken'd from the light, and bliuded 
With many a deep-hued bell-like flowev 

Of fragrant trailers, when the air 
Sleepeth over all the heaven, 
And the crag that fronts the Even, 
All along the shadowing shore, 

Crimsons over an inland mere, 
Eleiiuore ! 

4. 
How may full-sail'd verse express, 
How may measured words adore 
The full-flowing harmony 
Of thy swan-like stateliness, 
Eleiinore ? 
The luxuriant, symmetry 
Of thy floating gracefulness, 
Eleiinore ? 
Every turn and glance of thine. 
Every lineament divine, 

Eleiinore, 
And the steady sunset glow, 
That stays upon thee? For in thee 
Is nothing sudden, nothing single. 
Like two streams of incense free 

From one censer, in one shrine, 
Thonght and motion mingle. 
Mingle ever. Motions flow 
To one another, even as the' 
They were modulated so 

To an unheard melody. 
Which lives about thee, and a sweep 

Of richest pauses, evermore 
Drawn from each other mellow-deep ; 
Who may express thee, Eleiinore? 



I stand before thee, Eleanore ; 

I see thy beauty gradually unfold. 
Daily and hourly, more and more. 
I muse, as in a trance, the while 

Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, 
Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. 
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er 

The languors of thy love-deep eyes 
Float on to me. I would I were 

So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, 
To stand apart, and to adore, 
Gazing on thee forevermore. 
Serene, imperial Eleiiuore ! 

6, 

Sometimes, with most intensity 

Gazing, I seem to see 

Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep; 

Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and deep 

In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quite, 

I cannot veil, or droop my sight, 

But am as nothing in its light: 

.\s tho' a star, in iumost heaven set, 

Ev'n while we gaze on it, 

Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow 

To a full face, there like a sun remain 

Fix'd— -then as slowly fade again. 

And draw itself to what it was before, 
So full, so deep, so slow, 
Thought seems to come and go 

In thy large eyes, imperial Eleiinore. 

7. 
As thunder-clouds, that, hung on high, 
Roofd the world with doubt and fear. 



THE MILLERS DAUGHTER. 



23 



Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, 
Grow golden all about the sky; 
In thee all passion becomes passionless, 
Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness, 
Losing his lire and active might 

In a silent meditation, 
Falling into a still delight. 

And luxury of contemplation : 
As waves that up a quiet cove 
Rolling slide, and lying still 
Shadow forth the banks at will : 
Or sometimes they swell and move, 
Pressing up against the land, 
With motions of the outer sea: 
And the self-same intlnence 
Controlleth all the soul and sense 
Of Passion gazing upon thee. 
His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, 
Leaning his cheek upon his hand. 
Droops both his wings, regarding thee, 
And so would languish evermore. 
Serene, imperial Eleiiuorc. 

8. 
But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconflned, 
While the amorous, odorous wind 
Breathes low between the sunset and the moon ; 
Or, in a shadowy saloon. 
On silken curtains half reclined ; 

I watch thy grace; and in its place 
My heart a charmed slumber keeps, 

While I muse upon thy face; 
And a languid tire creeps 
Thro' my veins to all my frame, 
Dissolvingly and slowly : soon 

From thy rose-red lips my name 
Floweth; and then, as in a swoon, 
With dinning sound my ears are rife. 
My tremulous tongue faltereth, 
I lose my color, 1 lose my breath, 
I drink the cup of a costly death, 
Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warmest life. 
I die with my delight, before 
I hear what I would hear from thee; 
Yet tell my name again to me, 
I wotdd be dying evermore. 
So dying ever, Eleiinore. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 

I SEE the wealthy miller yet, 

His double chin, his portly size. 
And who that knew him could forget 

The busy wrinkles round his eyes ? 
The slow wise smile that, round about 

His dusty forehead dryly curl'd, 
Seem'd half-within and half-without, 

And full of dealings with the world? 

In yonder chair I see him sit, 

Three lingers round the old silver cup- 
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 

At his own jest — gray eyes lit up 
With summer lightnings of a soul 

So full of summer warmth, so glad. 
So healthy, sound, and clear and whole. 

His memory scarce can make me sad. 

Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss : 

My own sweet Alice, we must die. 
There's somewhat in this world amiss 

Shall be unriddled by-and-by. 
There's somewhat flows to us in life. 

But more is taken quite away. 
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, 

That we may die the self-same day. 



Have I not found a happy earth f 

I least siiould breathe a thought of pain. 
Would God renew me from my birth 

I'd almost live my life again. 
So sweet it seems with thee to walk, 

And once again to woo thee mine — 
It seems in after-dinner talk 

Across the walnuts and the wine — 

To be the long and listless boy 

Late-left an orphan of the squire. 
Where this old mansion mounted high 

Looks down upon the village spire: 
For even here, where I and you 

Have lived and loved alone so lorig. 
Each morn my sleep was broken thro' 

By some wild skylark's matin-song. 

And oft I heard the tender dove 

In flrry woodlands making moan ; 
But ere I saw your eyes, my love, 

I had no motion of my own. 
For scarce my life with fancy play'd 

Before I dream'd that pleasant dream— 
Still hither thither idly sway'd 

Like those long mosses in the stream. 

Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear 

The milldam rushing down with noise, 
And see the minnows everywhere 

In crystal eddies glance and poise. 
The tall flag-flowers when they sprung 

Below the range of stepping-stones. 
Or those three chestnuts near, that hung 

In masses thick with milky cones. 

But, Alice, what an hour was that. 

When after roving in the woods 
('Twas April then), I came and sat 

Below the chestnuts, when their bads 
Were glistening to the breezy blue; 

And on the slope, an absent fool, 
I cast me down, nor thought of you. 

But angled in the higher pool. 

A love-song I had somewhere read. 

An echo from a measured strain. 
Beat time to nothing in my head 

From some odd corner of the brain. 
It haunted me, the morning long, 

With weary sameness in the rhymes. 
The phantom of a silent song. 

That went and came a thousand times. 

Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood 

I watch'd the little circles die ; 
They past into the level flood. 

And there a vision caught my eye; 
The reflex of a beauteous form, 

A glowing arm, a gleaming neck. 
As when a sunbeam wavers warm 

Within the dark and dimpled beck. 

For you remember, yon had set, 

That morning, on the casement's edge 
A long green box of mignonette. 

And you were leaning from the ledge ; 
And when I raised my eyes, above 

They met with two so full and bright- 
Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love, 

That these have never lost their light. 

I loved, and love dispell'd the fear 
That I should d'e an early death ; 

For love possess'd the atmosphere, 
And mi'd the breast with purer breath 

My mother thought. What ails the boy? 
For I was alter'd, and began 



24 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 



To move about the house with joy, 
And with the certain step of man. 

I loved the brimming wave that swam 

Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, 
The sleepy pool above the dam, 

The pool beueath it never still, 
The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor. 

The dark round of the dripping wheel. 
The very air about the door 

Made misty with the floating meal. 

And oft in ramblings on the wold, 

When April nights began to blow. 
And April's crescent glimmer'd cold, 

I saw the village lights below; 
I knew your taper far away. 

And full at heart of trembling hope. 
From off the wold I came, and lay 

Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. 

The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill: 
And "by that lamp," I thought, "she sits!" 

The white chalk-quarry from the hill 
Gleamed to the flying moon by flts. 

"O that I were beside her now! 

will she answer if I call ? 

would she give me vow for vow, 
Sweet Alice, if I told her all ?" 

Sometimes I saw you sit and spin ; 

Aud, in the pauses of the wind, 
Sometimes I heard you sing with'n ; 

Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind. 
At last you rose and moved the light, 

And the long shadow of the chair 
Flitted across into the night. 

And all the casement darken'd there. 

But when at last I dared to speak. 

The lanes, you know, were white with May, 
Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek 

Flush'd like the coming of the day ; 
And so it was— half-sly, half-shy. 

You would, and would not, little one! 
Although I pleaded tenderly, 

And you and I were all alone. 

And slowly was my mother brought 

To yield consent to my desire : 
She wish'd me happy, but she thought 

1 might have look'd a little higher; 
And I was young — too young to wed : 

"Yet must I love her for your sake; 
Go fetch your Alice here," she said: 
Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. 

And down I went to fetch my bride: 

But, Alice, you were ill at ease; 
Tliis dress and that by turns you tried, 

Too fearful that you should not please. 

1 loved you better for your fears, 

I knew you could not look but well : 
And dews, that would have fall'u in tears, 
I kiss'd away before they fell. 

I watch'd the little flntterings. 

The doubt my mother would not see; 
She spoke at large of many things, 

And at the last she spoke of me; 
And turning look'd upon your face, 

As near this door you sat apart, 
And rose, and, with a silent grace 

Approaching, press'd you heart to heart. 

Ah, well— but sing the foolish song 
I gave you, Alice, on the day 



When, arm in arm, we went along, 
A pensive pair, and you were gay 

With bridal flowers — that I may seem, 
As in the nights of old, to lie 

Beside the mill-wheel in the stream. 
While those full chestnuts whisper by. 



It is the miller's daughter. 

And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
That I would be the jewel 

That trembles at her ear : 
For hid in ringlets day and night, 
I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 

And 1 would be the girdle 
About her dainty, dainty waist; 

Aud her heart would beat against me, 
In sorrow and in rest : 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 

And I would be the necklace, 
And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom. 
With her laughter or her sighs, 

Aud 1 would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be uuclasp'd at night. 

A trifle, sweet ! which true love siiells — 

True love interprets — right alone. 
His light upon the letter dwells, 

For all the spirit is his own. 
So, if I waste words now, in truth. 

You must blame Love. His early rage 
Had force to make me rhyme in youth. 

And makes me talk too much in age. 

And now those vivid hours are gone. 

Like mine owu life to me thou art, 
Where Past- and Present, wound in one. 

Do make a garland for the heart : 
So sing that other song I made, 

Half-anger'd with my happy lot. 
The day, when in the chestnut-shade 

I found the blue Forget-me-not. 



Love that hath us i'. the net. 
Can he pass, and we forget? 
Many suns arise and set. 
Many a chance the years beget. 
Love the gift is Love the debt. 
Even so. 

Love is hurt with jar and fret. 
Love is made a vague regret. 
Eyes with idle tears are wet. 
Idle habit links us yet. 
What is love ? for we forget : 
Ah, no ! no ! 



Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife; 

Round my true heart thine arms entwine : 
My other dearer life in life. 

Look thro' my very soul with thine ! 
Untouch'd with any shade of years. 

May those kind eyes forever dwell 1 
They have not shed a many tears, 

Dear eyes, since first I kuew them well 

Yet tears they shed: they had their part 

Of sorrow : for when time was ripe, 
The still aftcction of the heart 

Became an outward breathing type, 
That into stillness past again. 

And left a want unknown before ; 
Although the loss that brought us pain. 

That loss but made us love the mort, 



FATIMA.— CENONE. 



With farther lookings on. The kiss, 

The woven arms, seem but to be 
Weak symbols of the settled bliss, 

The comfort, I have found in thee : 
But that God bless thee, dear— who wrought 

Two spirits to one equal mind — 
With blessings beyond hope or thought, 

With blessings which uo words can tiud. 

Arise, and let us wander forth. 

To yon old mill across the wolds ; 
For look, the sunset, south and north, 

Winds all the vale in rosy folds, 
And tires your narrow casement giass, 

Touching the sullen pool below : 
On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 

Is dry and dewless. Let us go. 



FATIMA. 

O Love, Love, Love ! O withering might ! 

sun, that from thy noonday height 
Shudderest when I strain my sght, 
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, 

Lo, falling from my constant mind, 

Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind, 

I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 

Last night I wasted hateful hours 
Below the city's eastern towers : 

1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers : 
I roll'd among the tender flovvers- 

I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth : 
I look'd athwart the burning drouth 
Of that long desert to the south. 

Last night, when some one spoke his name. 
From my swift blood that went and came 
A thousand little shafts of flame 
Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. 

Love, O fire I once he drew 

With one long kiss my whole soul thro* 
My lips, as sunlight driuketh dew. 

Before he mounts the hill, I know ^ 
He Cometh quickly : from below 
Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow 
Before him, striking on my brow. 
Ill my dry brain my spirit soon, 
Down-deepening from swoon to swoon. 
Faints like a dazzled morning moou. 

The wind sounds like a silver wire. 
And from beyond the noon a tire 
Is pour'd upon the hills, and uigher 
The skies stoop down in their desire; 
And, isled in sudden seas of light, 
My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight. 
Bursts into blossom in his sight. 

My whole soul waiting silently. 
All naked in a sultry sky, 
Droops blinded with his shining eye: 
I will possess him or will die. 

1 will grow round him in his place, 
GroYif, live, die looking on his face. 
Die, Jying clasp'd in his embrace. 



CENONE. 

Thkre lies a vale in Ina, lovelier 

Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 

The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen. 

Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine. 

And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 

The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down 



Hang rich In flowers, and far below them roars 
The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine 
In cataract after cataract to the sea. 
Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 
Stands up and takes the morning : but in frout 
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 
Troas and Ilion's columu'd citadel, 
The crown of Troas. 

Hither came at noou 
Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn 
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. 
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck 
Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. 
She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, 
Sing to the stillness, till the mountain-shade 
Sloped downward to her seat in the upper cliflf. 

"O mother Ida, manj'-fonntain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: 
The grasshopper is silent in the grass: 
The lizard, with his shadow on the stone. 
Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps. 
The purple flowers droop: the golden bee 
Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. 
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 
My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, 
And I am all aweary of my life. 

"O mother Ida, many-fouutain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O Caves 
That house the cold-crown'd snake ! O mountain 

brooks, 
I am the daughter of a River-God, 
Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all 
My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 
A cloud that gather'd shape : for it may bft 
That, while I speak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 

"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
I waited underneath the dawning hills. 
Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark. 
And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine: 
Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 
Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hoovefl, 
Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 

"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Far-oflf the torrent call'd me from the cleft : 
Far up the solitary morning smote 
The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes 
I sat alone : white-breasted like a star 
Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leopard skin 
Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair 
Cluster'd about his temples like a God's : 
And his cheek brighten'd as the foam-bow brightens 
W^hen the wind blows the foam, and all my heart 
Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. 

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm 
Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold. 
That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd 
And listeii'd, the full flowing river of speech 
Came down upon my heart. 

" 'My own CEnone, 
Beautiful-brow'd ffinone, my own soul. 
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind engrav'n 
" For the most fair," would seem to award it thina 
As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt 
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
Of movement, and the charm of married brows.' 

' "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
He prest the blossom of hie lips to mine, 



26 



(ENONE. 



And added, 'This was cast upon the board, 
When all the full-faced presence of the Gods 
Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; whereupon 
Rose feud, with question uuto whom 'twere due : 
But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, 
Delivering, that to me, by common voice 
Elected umpire. Here comes to-day, 
Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave 
Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, 
Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard 
Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.' 

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon : cue silvery cloud 
Had lost his way between the piny sides 
Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, 
Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower. 
And at their feet the crocus brake like liie, 
Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 
Lotos and lilies : and a wind arose. 
And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, 
This way and that, in many a wild festoon 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro.' 

"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit. 
And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. 
Then first I beard the voice of her, to whom 
Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows 
Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods 
Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue 
Wherewith to embellish state, ' from many a vale 
And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn. 
Or labor'd mines undrainable of ore. 
Honor,' she said, ' and homage, tax and toll. 
From many an inland town and haven large, 
Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel 
lu glassy bays among her tallest towers.' 

"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Still she spake on and still she spake of power, 
'Which in all action is the end of all : 
Power fitted to the season ; wisdom-bred 
And throned of wisdom— from all neighbor crowns 
Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 
Pail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me. 
From me. Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, 
A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, 
Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power 
Only, are likest gods, who have attaiu'd 
Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 
Above the thunder, with undying bliss 
In knowledge of their own supremacy.' 

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit 
Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power 
Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pallas where she stood 
Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs 
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold. 
The while, above, her full and earnest eye 
Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 
Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. 

" 'Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control. 
These three aloue lead life to sovereign power. 
Yet not for power, (power of herself 
Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law. 
Acting the law we live by without fear; 
And, because right is right, to follow right 
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.' 



"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Again she said: 'I woo thee not with gifts. 
Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, 
So shalt thou flud me fairest. 

Yet, indeed, 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, 
Unbiass'd by self-profit, oh ! rest thee sure 
That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, 
So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood. 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, 
To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks. 
Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow 
Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will, 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom.' 

"Here she ceased, 
And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, ' O Paris, 
Give it to Pallas !' but he heard me not, 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me ! 

"O mother Ida, many-fountaiu'd Ida, 
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, 

Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells. 
With rosy slender fingers backward drew 
From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair 
Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat 
And shoulder: from the violets her light foot 
Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form 
Between the shadows of the vine-bunches 
Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. 

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, 
The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh 
Half-whisper'd in his ear, ' I promise thee 
The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' 
She spoke and laughed : I shut my sight for fear 
But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, 
And I beheld great Here's angry eyes. 
As she withdrew into the golden cloud. 
And I was lei't alone within the bower ; 
And from that time to this I am alone, 
And I shall be aloue until I die. 
• 

"Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
Fairest— why fairest wife? am I not fair? 
My love hath told, me so a thousand times. 
Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday. 
When I passed by, a wild and wanton pard, 
Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail 
Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? 
Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms 
Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest 
Close, close to thine in that quick-filling dew 
Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains 
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. 

" O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
They came, they cut away my tallest pines. 
My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge 
High over the blue gorge, and all between 
The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 
Poster'd the callow eaglet— from beneath 
Whose thick mysterious bows in the dark morn 
The panther's roar came mufiled, while I sat 
Low in the valley. Never, never more 
Shall lone CEnone see the morning mist 
Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid 
With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud. 
Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. 

"O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds. 
Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, 
■Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her. 
The Abominable, that uninvited came 



THE SISTERS.— TO 



-THE PALACE OF ART. 



luto the fair Pelei'an bauquet-hall, 

Aud cast the goldeu fruit upou the board, 

Aud bred this change; that I might speak my mind, 

And tell her to her face how much I hate 

Her presence, hated both of Gods aud men. 

"O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times. 
In this green valley, under this greeu hill, 
Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone ? 
Seal'd it .with kisses? water'd it with tears? 
O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! 
O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face ? 
O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight ? 

death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, 
There are enough unhappy on*this earth. 
Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: 

1 pray thee, pass before my light of life, 
And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, 
Weigh heavy on my eyelids : let me die. 

"O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I will not die alone, for tiery thoughts 
Do shape themselves within me, more and more. 
Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. 
Like footsteps upou wool. I dimly see 
My far-oif doubtful purpose, as a mother 
Conjectures of the features of her child 
Ere it is born : her child ! a shudder comes 
Across me: never child be born of me, 
Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes ! 

"O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, 
Lest then- shrill happy laughter come to me 
Walking the cold and starless road of Death 
Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
With the Greek woman. I will rise aud go 
Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth 
Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says 
A lire dauces before her, aud a sound 
Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 
What this may be I know not, but I know 
Thai, wneresoe'er I am by night aud day. 
All earth and air seem only burning fire." 



THE SISTERS. 

We were two daughters of one race: 
She was the fairest in the face : 

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
They were together, aud she fell ; 
Therefore i-evenge became me well. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

She died : she went to burning flame : 
She mi.iv'd her ancient blood with shame. 

The wind is howling in turret and tree. 
Whole weekB and mouths, aud early and late. 
To win his love I lay in wait : 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I made a feast ; I bade him come ; 
I won his love, I brought him home. 

The wind is roaring iu turret aud tree. 
And after supper, on a bed, 
Upon my lap he laid his head : 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I kiss'd his eyelids into rest: 
HIb ruddy cheek upon my breast. 

The wind is raging in turret aud tree. 
I hated him with the hate of hell. 
But I loved his beauty passing well. 

O the Earl was fair to see I 



I rose up in the silent night : 

I made my dagger sharp aud bright. 

The wind is raving iu turret and tree. 
As half-asleep his breath he drew. 
Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro'. 

O the Earl was fair to see ! 

I curl'd and comb'd his comely head. 
He look'd so grand when he was dead. 

Tlie wind is blowiug in turret and tree. 
I wrapt his body in the sheet. 
And laid him at his mother's feet. 

O the Earl was fair to see I 



TO 



WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM. 

I SKND you here a sort of allegory, 

(For you will understand it) of a soul, 

A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts, 

A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, 

A glorious Devil, large iu heart aud brain, 

That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seen 

In all varieties of mould and mind,) 

Aud Knowledge for its beauty ; or if Good, 

Good only for its beauty, seeing not 

That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge are three sisters 

That doat upon each other, friends to man. 

Living together under the same roof, 

Aud never can be sunder'd without tears, 

Aud he that shuts Love out, iu turn shall be 

Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie 

Howling in outer darkness. Not for this 

Was common clay ta'en from the common earth, 

Moulded by God, and temper'd with the tears 

Of angels to the perfect shape of man. 



THE PALACE OF ART. 

I jiriT.T my soul a lordly pleasure-house. 

Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
I said, " O Soul, make merry and carouse. 
Dear soul, for all is well." 

A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass, 

I chose. The ranged ramparts bright 
Prom level meadow-bases of deep grass 
Suddenly scaled the light. 

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf 

The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 
My soul would live alone unto herself 
In her high palace there. 

And "while the world runs round and round,"! said, 

" Reigu thou apart, a quiet king. 
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring." 

To which ray soul made answer readily: 

"Trust me, iu bliss I shall abide 
In this great mansion, that is built for me. 
So royal-rich and wide." 



Four courts I made, East, West and South and North, 

In each a squared lawn, wherefrom 
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth 
A flood of fouutaiu-foam. 

And round the cool greeu courts there ran a row 

Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods. 
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow 
Of spouted fountain-floods. 



28 



THE PALACE OF ART. 



And round the roofs a gilded gallery 

That lent broad verge to distant lands, 
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky 
Dipt down to sea aud sands. 

From those four jets four cm-rents in one swell 

Across the mountain stream'd below 
lu misty folds, that floating as they fell 

Lit up a torreut-bow. , 

And high on every peak a statue seem'd 

To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 
A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd 
From out a golden cup. 

So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon 

My palace with unbliuded eyes. 
While this great bow will waver in the sun, 
Aud that sweet iuceuse rise ?" 

For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd, 

And, while day sank or mounted higher. 
The light aiirial gallery, goldeu-rail'd, 
Burut like a fringe of Are. 

Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd aud traced, 

Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires 
From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced, 
Aud tipt with frost-like spires. 



Full of long-sounding corridors it was. 

That over-vaulted grateful gloom. 
Thro' which the live-long day my soul did pass 
Well-pleased, from room to room. 



Full of great rooms and small the palace stood. 

All various, each a perfect whole 
From living Nature, fit for every mood 
Aud change of my still soul. 

For some were hung with arras green and blue. 
Showing a gaudy summer-morn, 
J Where with puft"'d cheek the belted huuter blew 
His wreathed bugle-horn. 

One geem'd all dark and red,— a tract of sand. 

And some one pacing there alone, 
Who paced forever in a glimmering land, 
Lit with a low large moon. 

One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. 

You seem'd to hear them climb aud fall 
And roar rock-thwarted under bellowiug caves, 
Beneath the windy wall. 

And one, a full-fed river winding slow 

By herds upon an endless plain. 
The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, 
With shadow-streaks of rain. 

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. 

In front they bound the sheaves. Behind 
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil. 
And hoary to the wind. 

And one, a foreground black with stones and slags, 

Beyond, a line of heights, and higher 
/jU barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags. 
And highest, snow aud fire. 

And one, an English home,— gray twilight pour'd 

On dewy pastures, dewy trees. 
Softer than sleep,— all things in order stored, 
A haunt of aucieut Peace. 



Nor these alone, but every landscape fair. 

As fit for every mood of mind. 
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, 
Not less than truth design'd. 



Or the maid-mother by a crucifix. 
In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, 
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx 
Sat smiliug, babe iu arm. 

Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea. 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily; 
An angel looked at her. 

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, 

A group of Houris bow'd to see 
The dying Islamite, with hands aud eyes 
That said. We wait for thee. 

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son 
In some fair space of sloping greens 
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 
And watch'd by weeping queens. 

Or hollowing one hand against his ear, 

To list a footfall, ere he saw 
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausooiau king to hear 
Of wisdom and of law. 

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, 

And many a tract of palm and rice. 
The thnnie of Indian Cama slowly sail'd 
A summer fann'd with spice. 

Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd, 
From off' her shoulder backward borne : 
From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd 
The mild bull's golden horn. 

Or else flushed Ganymede, his rosy thigh 

Half-buried in the Eagle's down, 
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky 
Above the pillar'd town. 

Nor these alone: but every legend fair 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Carved out of Nature for itself, was there. 
Not less thau life, design'd. 



Then in the towers I placed great bells that swunj 
. Moved of themselves, with silver sound; 
And with choice paintings of wise men I hung 
The royal dais round. 

For there was Milton like a seraph strong. 
Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild ; 
And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song 
And somewhat grimly smiled. 

And there the Ionian father of the rest; 

A million w-rinkles carved his skin; 
A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast. 
From cheek and throat aud chiu. 

Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set 

Many an arch high up did lift, 
And anirels rising and descending met 
With interchange of gift. 

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd 
With cycles of the human tale 



THE PALACE OF ART. 




" Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 

And watch'd by weeping queena.*' 



Of this wide world, tfie times of every land 
So wrought, they will not fail. 

The people here, a beast of burden slow, 

Toil'd on'vard, prick'd with goads and stings; 
Uerc play'd a tiger, rolling to and fro 
The heads and crowns of kings ; 

Here rose an athlete, strong to break or bind 

All force in bonds that might endure. 
And here once more like some sick man decliu'd. 
And trusted any cure. 

But over these she trod: and those great bells 

Began to chime. She took her throne : 
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, 
To sing her songs alone. 

And thro' the topmost Oriels' color'd flame 

Two godlike faces gazed below; 
Phato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam, 
The first of those who know. 

And all those names, that in their motion were 

Full-welling fountain-heads of change. 
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair 
In diverse raiment strange : 

Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue, 

Flush'd in her temples and her eyes. 
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew 
Rivers of melodies. 

No nightingale delighteth to prolong 

Her low preamble all alone. 
More than my soul to hear her echo'd song 
Throb thro' the ribbed stone ; 

Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth. 

Joying to feel herself alive. 
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth, 
Lord of the senses five ; 



Communing with herself: "All these are mine, 

And let the world have peace or wars, 
'Tis one to me." She— when young night divine 
Crown'd dying day with stars, 

Making sweet close of his delicious toils — 

Lit light in wreaths and anadems. 
And pure quintessences of precious oils 
In hollow'd moons of gems, 

To mimic heaven ; and clapt her hands and cried, 

" I marvel if my still delight 
In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, 
Be flatter'd to the height. 

" O all things fair to sate my various eyes ! 

shapes and hues that please me well! 

silent faces of the Great and Wise, 

My Gods, with whom I dw.ell ! 

"O God-like isolation which art mine, 

1 can but count thee perfect gain. 

What time I watch the darkening droves of swino 
That range on yonder plain. 

"In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, 
They graze and wallow, breed and sleep ; 
And oft some brainless devil enters in. 
And drives them to the deep." 

Then of the moral instinct would she prate. 

And of the rising from the dead. 
Asters by right of full-accomplish'd Fate; 
And at the last she said: 

"I take possessiA of man's mind and deed. 
I care not what the sects may brawl. 

1 sit as God holding no form of creed. 

But contemplating all." 



30 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 



Full oft the riddle of the painful earth 

Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone, 
Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth, 
And intellectual throne. 

And so she throve and prosper'd: so three years 

Slie prosper'd : on the fourth she fell, 
Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears, 
Struck thro' with pangs of hell. 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 

God, before whom ever lie bare 
The abysmal deeps of Personality, 
Plagued her with sore despair. 

When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight, 

The airy hand confusion wrought, 
Wrote "JVIene, raeue," and divided quite 
The kingdom of her thought. 

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude 

Fell on her, from which mood was born 
Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood 
Laughter at her self-scorn. 

"What ! is not this my place of strength," she said, 

"My spacious mansion built for me, 
Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid 
Since my first memory?" 

But iu dark corners of her palace stood 

Uncertain shapes ; and unawares 
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood, 
And horrible nightmares, 

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, 

And, with dim fretted foreheads all, 
On corpses three-months old at noon she came, 
That stood against the wall. 

A spot of dull stagnation, without light 

Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, 
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
Making for one sure goal. 

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand ; 

Left on the shore ; that hears all night 
The plunging seas draw backward from the land 
Their moon-led waters white. 

A star that with the choral starry dance 

Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw 
The hollow orl) of moving Circumstance 
Roll'd round by one fix'd law. 

Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd. 
"No voice," she shriek'd iu that lone hall, 
" No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world : 
One deep, deep silence all !" 

She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod, 

Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, 
Lay there exiled from eternal God, 
Lost to her place and name ; 

And death and life she hated equally. 

And nothing saw, for her despair. 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, 
No comfort anywhere ; 

Remaining utterly confused with fears, 

And ever worse with growing time, 
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, 
And all alone in crime: 

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round 

With blackness as a solid wall, 
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound 
Of humaji footsteps fall. 



As in strange lands a traveller walking 

In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moon-rise hears the low 
Moan of an unknown sea ; 



slow, 



And knows not if it be thunder or a sound 

Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry 
Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, "I have found 
A new land, but I die." 

She howl'd aloud, "I am on fire within. 

There comes no murmur of reply. 
What is it that will take away my sin, 
And save me lest I die?" 

So when four years were wholly finished, 

She threw her royal robes away, 
" Make me a cottage iu the vale," she said, 
" Where I may mourn and pray. 

"Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are 

So lightly, beautifully built : 
Perchance I may return with others there 
When I have purged my guilt." 



LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

Of me you shall not win renown : 
You thought to break a country heart 

For pastime, ere yon went to town. 
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 

I saw the snare, and I retired : 
The daughter of a hundred Earls, 

You are not one to be desired. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

I know you proud to bear your name. 
Your pride is yet no mate for mine. 

Too proud to care from whence I came. 
Nor would I break for your sweet sake 

A heart that doats on truer charms. 
A simple maiden iu her flower 

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 

Lady Clara "Vere de Vere, 

Some meeker pupil you must find, 
For were you queen of all that is, 

I could not stoop to such a mind. 
You sought to prove how I could love, 

And my disdain is my reply. 
The lion on your old stone gates 

Is not more cold to you than I. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

You put strange memories in my head. 
Not thrice your branching limes have blown 

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 
Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies: 

A great enchantress you may be ; 
But there was that across his throat 

Which you had hardly cared to see. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

When thus he met his mother's view, 
She had the passions of her kind. 

She spake some certain truths of you. 
Indeed I heard one bitter word 

That scarce is fit for you to hear; 
Her manners had not that repose 

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 

There stands a spectre in your hall : 
The guilt of blood is at your door : 

You changed a wholesome heart to gall. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 



31 



You held your course without remorse, 
To make him trust his modest worth, 

And, last, you lix'd a vacant stare, 
Aud slew him with your uoble birth. 

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

Prom yon blue heavens above us bent 
The grand old gardener aud his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 

'Tis only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets, 

And simple faith than Norman blood. 

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere: 
You pine among your halls and towers : 



The languid light of your proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In glowing health, with boundless wealth, 

But sickening of a vague disease. 
You know so ill to deal with time, 

You needs must play such pranks as thsse 

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If Time be heavy on your hands, 
Are there no beggars at your gate, 

Nor any poor about your lands? 
Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read, 

Or teach the ori)han-girl to sew, 
Pray Heaven for a human heart, 

And let the foolish yeoman go. 



THE ]\f A Y QUEEN. 




' You must wikb an i all i e earlj, call me early, mother dear." 

Yotr must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day; 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; 

There's Ma-garet and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline : 

But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, 

So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, 

If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : 

But I must gather knots of (lowers, and buds and garlands gay, 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see. 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, — 

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. 
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be : 
"They say his heart is breaking, mother— what is that to me? 
There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 
3 



32 



NEW- YEAR'S EVE. 



Little Eftie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, 

And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; 

For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has wnv'n its wavy bowers. 

And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; 

And the wild marsh-marigold shines like tire in swamps aud hollows gray, 

And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, 
Aud the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass ; 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May^ 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill. 

And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play. 

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year: 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day. 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' th& May. 



NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 

If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, 

For 1 would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. 

It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, 

Then you may lay me low i' the mould aud think no more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, aud all my peace of mind; 
And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; 
And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. 

There's not a flower on all the hills ; the frost is on the pane : 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: 
I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 

The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, 

And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 

And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, 

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. 







" Last May we inaile a crown of (lowers, we hart n merry day ; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May.' 



CONCLUSION. 38 



Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, 
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, 
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light 
■you'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; 
When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pooiu 

You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade. 
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when yon pass, 
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; 
You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go ; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. 
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. 

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; 
Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look rpon your face; 
Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, 
And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. 

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore, 
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door; 
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green. 
She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor ; 
Let her take 'em: they are hers: I shall never garden more: 
But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set 
About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette. 

Good-night, sweet mother; call me before the day is born, 
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, 
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 



CONCLUSION. 

I THOUGHT to pass away before, and }'et alive I am ; 

And m the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. 

How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year i 

To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. 

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, 
And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. 

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done! 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. 

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! 

And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there » 

blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. 
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in ; 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be. 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 

1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat. 
There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meets 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, 
And E&e on the other side, and 1 will tell the sigu. 

All in the wild March-morning I heard the ansrels call : 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; 
The trees bejian to whisper, and the wind began to roll. 
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. 



34 



CONCLUSION. 




Me, and I 



i in.t v.uir hill 
11 tell the 



For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effle dear; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; 
With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resigned, 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed. 
And then did something speak to me— I know not what was said; 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, 
And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 

But you were sleeping: and 1 said, "It's not for them: it's mine." 
And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. 
And once a^ain it came, and close beside the window-bars, 
Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. 

So now 1 think my time is near. I trust it is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
But Effle, you must comfort her when I am past away. 




* And say to Robin a ki 
There's nianv worthier thuu I. 



nd tell him not t.i fret ; 
uld make him huppy yet." 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 



35 



And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; 
There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been his wife ; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. 

O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; 
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. 
And there I move uo longer now, and there his light may shine- 
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — 
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — 
And what is life, that we should moan f why make we such ado i 

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home — 

And there to wait a little while till you and Effle come — 

To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — 

And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 



THE LOTOS-EATERS. 

" Courage !" he said, and pointed toward the laud, 
"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soou." 
In the afternoon they came unto a land. 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; 
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. 

A land of streams ! some, like a downward smoke, 

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; 

And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke. 

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 

From the inner land: far oft", three mountain-tops. 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow. 

Stood sunset-flushed : and, dew'd with showery drops, 

Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. 

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 

In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 

Border'd Vifith palm, and many a winding vale 

And meadow, set with slender galingale: 

A land where all things always seem'd the same ! 

And round about the keel with faces pale. 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame. 

The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. 

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem. 

Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 

To each, but whoso did receive of them, 

And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 

Far ftir away did seem to mourn and rave 

On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake, 

His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ; 

And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, 

And music in his ears his beating heart did make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow sand. 
Between the sun and mo(m upon the shore ; 
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore 
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, "We will return no more;" 
And all at once they sang, " Our island home 
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam." 

CHORIC SONG. 
1. 
There is sweet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 



Or night-dews on still waters between walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; 
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, 
Thau tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes: 
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the bliss- 
ful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep. 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep. 
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep. 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. 



Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness. 
And utterly consumed with sharp distress. 
While all things else have rest from weariness? 
All things have rest: why should we toil alone, 
We only toil, who are the first of things, 
And make perpetual moan. 
Still from one sorrow to another thrown : 
Nor ever fold our wings. 
And cease from wanderings, 
Nor steep our brows iu slumber's holy balm : 
Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, 
" There is no joy but calm !" 

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown oi 
things ? 



Lo ! in the middle of the wood. 

The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud 

W^ith winds upon the branch, and there 

Grows green and broad, and takes no care, 

Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 

Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 

Falls, and floats adown the air. 

Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer light. 

The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, 

Drops in a silent autumn night. 

All its allotted length of days, 

The flower ripens in its place. 

Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, 

Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 

4. 

Hateful is the dark-blue sky. 
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 
Death is the end of life ; ah, why 
Should life all labor be ? 
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, 
And in a little while our lips are dumb. 
Let us alone. What is it that will last? 
All things are taken from us, and become 
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. 
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 
To war with evil ? Is there any peace 



■M 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



In ever climbiug up the climbing wave? 
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave 
In silence ; ripen, fall and cease : 
Give us long rest or death, diuk death, or dreamful 
ease. 

5. 

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream. 
With half-shut eyes ever to seem 
Falling asleep in a half-dream ! 
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light. 
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height ; 
To hear each other's whisper'd speech; 
Eating the Lotos day by day. 
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, 
And tender curving lines of creamy spray ; 
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; 
To muse and brood and live again iu memory. 
With those old faces of our infancy 
Heap'cl over with a mound of grass. 
Two haudfuls of white dust, shut in au uru of 
brass ! 

C. 
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, 
And dear the last embraces of our wives 
And their warm tears : but all hath sufter'd change ; 
For surely now our household hearths are cold : 
Our sous inherit us: our looks arc strange: 
And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. 
Or else the island princes over-bold 
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings 
Before them of the ten-years' war in Troy, 
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. 
Is there confusion in the little isle? 
Let what is broken so remain. 
The Gods are hard to reconcile: 
'Tis hard to settle order once again. 
There is confusion worse than death, 
Trouble on trouble, paiu on pain. 
Long labor unto aged breath, 
Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars, 
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. 

7. 
But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, 
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) 
With half-dropt eyelids still. 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy. 
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly 
His waters from the purple hill— 
To hear the dewy echoes calling 
From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine— 
To watch the emerald-color'd water falling 
Thro' mauy a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine ! 
Only to hear and see the fiir-oflf sparkling brine. 
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the 
pine. 



The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: 
The Lotos blows by every winding creek : 
All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: 
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos- 
dust is blown. 
We have had enough of action, and of motion we, 
Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the 

surge was seething free. 
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam- 
fountains in the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal 

mind. 
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined 
On the hills like Gods together, careless of man- 
kind. 



For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts aie 

hurl'd 
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are 

lightly curl'd 
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleam- 
ing world : 
Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted 

lands, 
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring 

deeps and tiery sands, 
Clanging lights, and flaming towns, and sinking 

skips, aud praying hands. 
But they smile, they And a music centred in a dole- 
ful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient talc of 

wrong. 
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are 

strong ; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave 

the soil, 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring 

toil. 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine, aud oil ; 
Till they perish and they suffer— some, 'tis whis- 
pered—down in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysiau valleys 

dwell, 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the 

shore 
Than labor iu the deep mid-ocean, wind aud wave 

and oar ; 
O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander 
more. 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 

I KEAD, before my eyelids dropt their shade, 
" The Legend of Good Women," long ago 

Sung by the morning star of song, who made 
His music heard below ; 

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breatt 
Preluded those melodious bursts that fill 

The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
With sounds that echo still. 

And, for a while, the knowledge of his art 
Held me above the subject, as strong gales 

Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my heart, 
Brimful of those wild tales, 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every laud 

I saw, wherever light illumineth. 
Beauty and anguish walking hand iu hand 

The downward slope to death. 

Those far-renowned brides of ancient song 

Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars, 

Aud I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong, 
And trumpets blown for wars; 

And clattering flints batter'd with clanging hoof«5 
And I saw crowds in colnmn'd sanctuaries ; 

And forms that pass'd at windows and on roolb 
Of marble palaces; 

Corpses across the threshold; heroes tall 

Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 
Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall; 

Lances in ambush set ; 

And high shrine -doors burst thro' with heated 
blasts 

That run before the fluttering tongues of fire -• 
White surf wind-scatter' d over sails ana masis, 

And ever climbing higher ; 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



37 



Squadrons aud squares of men in brazen plates, 
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes, 

Ranges of glimmering vaults witli iron grates, 
Aud hush'd seraglios. 

So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land 
Bluster the winds aud tides the self-same way. 

Crisp foam-flakes scud aloug the level saud, 
Toru from the fringe of spray. 

I started once, or seem'd to start in pain, 

Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak. 

As when a great thought strikes aloug the brain, 
And flushes all the cheek. 

And once my arm was lifted to hew down 
A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, 

That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town ; 
And then, I know uot how, 

All those sharp fancies by down-lapsing thought 
Stream'd onward, lost their edges, aud did creep 

Koll'd on each other, rounded, smooth'd, and brought 
Into the gulfs of sleep. 

At last methought that I had wandered far 

In an old wood : fresh-wash'd in coolest dew. 

The maiden splendors of the morning star 
Shook iu the steadfast blue. 

Enormous elm-tree boles did stoop and lean 
Up(m the dusky brushwood underneath 

Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest 
green. 
New from its silken sheath. 

The dim red morn had died, her journey done, 
Aud with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain, 

Half-fall'n across the threshold of the sun, 
Never to rise again. 

There was no motion in the dumb dead air. 
Not any song of bird or sound of rill ; 

Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre 
Is not so deadly still 

As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine tnrn'd 
Their humid arms festooning tree to tree. 

And at the root thro' lush green grasses burn'd 
The red anemone. 

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew 
The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn 

On those long, rank, dark wood-walks dreuch'd in 
dew, 
Leadiug from lawn to lawn. 

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, 

Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame 

The times when I remember to have been 
Joyful and free from blame. 

And from within me a clear under-tone 

Thriird thro' mine ears iu that unblissful clime, 

"Pass freely thro': the wood is all thine own, 
Until the end of time." 

At length I saw a lady within call. 

Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing there; 
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 

And most divinely fair. 

Her loveliness with shame and with surprise 

Froze my swift speech ; she turning on my face 

The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes. 
Spoke slowly in her place. 

" I had great beauty ; ask thon not my name : 
No one can be more wise than destiny. 



Many drew swords and died. Where'er I came 
I brought calamity." 

"No marvel, sovereign lady: in fair field 
Myself for such a face had boldly died." 

I answer'd free; aud turning I appeal'd 
To one that stood beside. 

But she, with sick and scornful looks averse. 

To her full height her stately stature draws ; 
"My youth," she said, "was blasted with a curse: 
This woman was the cause. 

"I was cut off from hope in that sad place, 

Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears ' 

My father held his hand upon his face : 
I, blinded with my tears, 

" Still strove to speak : my voice was thick with 
sighs 

As in a dream. Dimly I could descry 
The stern black-bearded kiugs with wolfish eyes, 

Waiting to see me die. 

"The high masts flicker'd as they lay afloat; 

The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and the shore; 
The bright death quiver'd at the victim's throat; 

Touch'd ; and I knew no more." 

Whereto the other with a downward brow : 

"I would the white cold heavy-pluuging foam, 

Whirl'd by the wind, had roll'd me deep below, 
Then when I left my home." 

Her slow full words sank thro' the silence drear. 
As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea : 

Sadden I heard a voice that cried, "Come here, 
That I may look on thee." 

I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise, 
One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll'd ; 

A queen, Avith swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes, 
Brow-bound with burniug gold. 

She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began : 

"I govern'd men by change, and so I sway'd 

All moods. 'Tis long since I have seen a man 
Once, like the moon, I made 

"The ever-shifting currents of the blood 
According to my humor ebb and flow. 

I have no men to govern in this wood: 
That makes my only woe. 

"Nay — yet it chafes me that I could not bend 
One will; nor tame and tutor with mine eye 

That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Prythee, friend. 
Where is Mark Antony? 

"The man, my lover, with whom I rode sublime 
On Fortune's neck: we sat as God by God: 

The Nilus would have risen before his time 
And flooded at our nod. 

"We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit 
Lamps which outburn'd Canopns. O my life 

In Egypt ! O the dalliance and the wit, 
The flattery and the strife, 

"And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's alarms, 

My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 
My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms, 

Contented there to die! 

"Aud there he died: and when I heard my name 
Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook my I'car 

Of the other: with a worm I balk'd his fame. 
What else was left ? look here !" 



38 



A DKEAM OF FAIR WOMEN. 



(With that she tore her robe apart, and half 
The polish'd argent of her breast to sight 

Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a hxugh, 
Showing the aspic's bite.) 

"I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found 
Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, 

A name forever !— lying robed and crown'd. 
Worthy a Roman spouse." 

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range 

Struck by all passion, did fall down and glance 

From tone to tone, and glided thro' all change 
Of liveliest utterance. 

When she made pause I knew not for delight- 
Because with sudden motion from the ground 

She raised her piercing orbs, and flll'd with light 
The interval of sound. 

Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest darts ; 

As once they drew into two burning rings 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts 

Of captains and of kings. 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard 

A noise of some one coming thro' the lawn. 

And singing clearer than the crested bird, 
That claps his wings at dawn. 

" The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel 

From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, 

Sound all night long, in falling thro' the dell, 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 

"The balmy moon of blessed Israel 

Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams di- 
vine : 
All night the splinter'd crags that wall the dell 

With spires of silver shine." 

As one that museth where broad sunshine laves 
The lawn of some cathedral, thro' the door 

Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor 

Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd and tied 

To where he stands, — so stood I, when that flow 

Of music left the lips of her that died 
To save her father's vow ; 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, 

A maiden pure ; as when she went along 

From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome light, 
With timbrel and with song. 

My words leapt forth : " Heaven heads the count of 
crimes 

With that wild oath." She render'd answer high : 
" Not so, nor once alone ; a thousand times 

I would be born and die. 

"Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root 
Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath. 

Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower to fruit 
Changed, I was ripe for death. 

"My God, my land, my father, — these did move 
Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, 

Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of love 
Down to a silent grave. 

"And I went mourning, 'No fair Hebrew boy 
Shall smile away my maiden blame among 

The Hebrew mothers' — emptied of all joy 
Leaving the dance and song, 

" Leaving the olive-gardens far below. 

Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, 



The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow 
Beneath the battled tower. 

" The light white cloud swam over us. Anon 
We heard the lion roaring from his den ; 

We saw the large white stars rise one by one, 
Or, from the darken'd glen, 

"Saw God divide the night with flying flame, 
And thunder on the everlasting hills. 

I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became 
A solemn scorn of ills. 

" When the next moon was roll'd into the sky, 
Strength came to me that equall'd my desire. 

How beautiful a thing it was to die 
For God and for my sire ! 

"It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, 
That I subdued me to my father's will; 

Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell. 
Sweetens the spirit still. 

"Moreover it is written that my race 

Hew'd Amnion, hip and thigh, from Aroer 

On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face 
Glow'd, as I look'd at her. 

She lock'd her lips ; she left me where I stood : 
"Glory to God," she sang, and past afar, 

Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, 
Toward the morning-star. 

Losing her carol I stood pensively. 

As one that from a casement leans his head, 
When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly. 

And the old year is dead. 

"Alas ! alas '." a low voice, full of care, 

Murmur'd beside me: "Turn and look on me; 

I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair. 
If what I was I be. 

" Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor 
O me, that I should ever see the light ! 

Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor 
Do hunt me, day and night." 

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust : 
To whom the Egyptian : " O, you tamely died ! 

You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, and thrust 
The dagger thro' her side." 

With that sharp sound the white dawn's creeping 
beams, 

Stol'u to my brain, dissolved the mystery 
Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams 

Ruled in the eastern sky. 

Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark. 

Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last trance 

Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of Arc, 
A light of ancient France ; 

Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, 
Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, 

Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath, 
Sweet as new buds in Spring. 

No memory labors longer from the deep 

Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore 

That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep 
To gather and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain 
Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike 

Into that wondrous track of dreams again 1 
But no two dreams are like. 



MARGAllET.— THE BLACKBIRD.— THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 



39 



As wheu a soul laments, which hath been blest, 
Desiring what is mingled with past years, 

In yearnings that can never be exprest 
By signs or groans or tears ; 

Because all words, tho' cnll'd with choicest art. 
Failing to give the bitter of the sweet. 

Wither beneath the palate, and the heart 
Faiiits, faded by its heat. 



MARGARET. 

1. 

O SWEET pale Margaret, 

O rare pale Margaret, 
What lit your eyes with tearful power, 
Like moonlight on a falling shower? 
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower 

Of pensive thought and aspect pale. 

Your melancholy sweet and frail 
As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? 
From the westward-winding flood, 
From the evening-lighted wood, 

From all things outward you have won 
A tearful grace, as tho' you stood 

Between the rainbow and the sun. 
The very smile before you speak, 
That dimples your transparent cheek. 
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth 
The senses with a still delight 

Of dainty sorrow without sound. 

Like the tender amber round. 
Which the moon about her spreadeth, 
Moving thro' a fleecy night. 



You love, remaining peacefully. 

To hear the murmur of the strife, 
But enter not the toil of life. 

Your spirit is the calmed sea. 

Laid by the tumult of the fight. 

You are the evening star, alway 

Remaining betwixt dark and bright : 

Lull'd echoes of laborious day 

Come to you, gleams of mellow light 
Float by you on the verge of night. 



What can it matter, Margaret, 

What songs below the waning stars 

The lion-heart, Plautagenet, 

Sang looking thro' his prison bars? 
Exquisite Margaret, who can tell 

The last wild thought of Chatelet, 
Just ere the fallen axe did part 
The burning brain from the true heart, 
Even in her sight he loved so well ? 



A fairy shield your Genius made 

And gave you on your natal day. 
Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade. 

Keeps real sorrow far away. 
You move not in such solitudes, 

You are not less divine, 
But more human in your moods, 

Than your twin-sister, Adeline. 
Your hair is darker, and your eyes 

Touch'd with a somewhat darker hue, 

And less aerially blue 

But ever trembling thro' the dew 
Of daiuty-woful sympathies. 

5. 

O sweet pale Margaret, 
O rare pale Margaret, 



Come down, come down, and hear me speak : 
Tie up the ringlets on your cheek : 

The sun is just about to set. 
The arching limes are tall and shady. 
And faint, rainy lights are seen. 
Moving in the leafy beech. 
Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, 

Where all day long you sit between 
Joy and woe, and whisper each. 
Or only look across the lawn, 

Look out below your bower-eaves. 

Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn 

Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. 



THE BLACKBIRD. 

O Blackbird ! sing me something; well : 
While all the neighbors shoot thee round, 
I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground. 

Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. 

The espaliers and the standards all 
Are thine : the range of lawn and park : 
The uuuetted black-hearts ripen dark, 

All thine, against the garden wall. 

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the Spring, 
Thy sole delight is, sitting still. 
With that gold dagger of thy bill 

To fret the Summer jenneting. 

A golden bill ! the silver tongue, 

Cold February loved, is dry : 

Plenty corrupts the melody 
That made thee famous once, when young: 

And in the sultry garden-squares, 
Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarsi 
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 

As when a hawker hawks his wares. 

Take warning! he that will not sing 
While yon sun prospers in the blue. 
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, 

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow. 
And the winter winds are wearily sighing: 
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low, 
For the old year lies a-dying. 

Old year, you must not die : 

You came to us so readily, 

You lived with us so steadily. 

Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still : he doth not move : 

He will not see the dawn of day. 

He hath no other life above. 

He gave me a friend, and a true, true-lovt, 

And the New-year will take 'em away. 

Old year, you must not go ; 

So long as you have been with us. 

Such joy as you have seen with us, 

Old year, you shall not go. 

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim; 
A jollier year we shall not see. 
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim. 
And tho' his foes speak ill of him, 
He was a friend to me. 



40 



TO J. S. 




" Toll ye the church-bell sml and 
And tread softly and apeak low, 
For the old year Ilea a-dyin^." 



Old year, you shall not die ; 
We did so laugh and cry with yon, 
I've half a mind to die with you, 
Old year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest, 
But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
But he'll be dead before. 

Every one for his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my friend, 

And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend. 

Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes 1 over the snow 
1 heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro : 
The cricket chirps: the light burns low: 
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 

Sriake hands, before you die. 

Old year, we'll dearly rue for you; 

What is it we can do for you? 

Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin. 
Alack 1 our friend is gone. 
Close tip his eyes: tie up his chin: 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone. 

And waiteth at the door. 

There's a new foot on tiie floor, my frieud, 

And a new face at the door, my frieud, 

A new face at the door. 



TO J. S. 

Tun wind, that beats the mountain. Wows 
Moie softly round the open wold. 

And gently comes the world to those 
That are cast in gentle mould. 

And me this knowledge bolder made. 

Or else I had not dare to flow 
In these words toward you, and invade 

Even with a verse your holy woe. 

'Tis strange that those we lean on most, 

Those in whose laps our limbs are uurted. 

Fall into shadow, soonest lost : 

Those we love first are taken first. 

God gives us love. Something to love 
He lends us ; but, when love is grown 

To ripeness, that on which it throve 
Falls off", and love is left alone. 

This is the curse of time. Alas ! 

In grief I am not all unlearn'd; 
Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass; 

One went, who never hath return'd. 

He will not smile— nor speak to me 

Ouce more. Two years his chair is seea 

Empty before us. That was he 

Without whose life I had not been. 

Your loss is rarer ; for this star 
Rose with you thro' a little arc 



YOU ASK ME WHY.— LOVE THOU THY LAND. 



41 



or heaven, nor having wander'd far 
Shot on the sudden into dark. 

I knew your brother: his mute dust 

1 honor and his livin;? worth : 
A man more pure and bold and just 

Was never born into the earth. 

I have not look'd upon you nigh, 

Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. 

Great Nature is more wise than 1 : 
I will not tell you not to weej). 

And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, 
Drawn from the spirit tliro' the biain, 

I will not even preach to you, 

"Weep, weeping dulls the inward paiu." 

Let Grief be her own mistress still. 

She loveth her own anguish deep 
More than much pleasure. Let her will 

Be done — to weep or not to weep. 

I will not say " God's ordinance 

Of death is blown in every wind ;" 

For that is not a common chance 
That takes away a noble mind. 

His memory long will live alone 

In all our hearts, as mournful light 

That broods above the fallen sun. 

And dwells in heaven half the night. 

Vain solace ! Memory standing near 

Cast down her eyes, and in her throat. 

Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear 
Dropt on the letters as I wrote. 

I wrote I know not what. In truth. 
How should I soothe you anyway. 

Who miss the brother of your youth ? 
Yet something I did wish to say: 

For he too was a friend to me : 

Both are my friends, and my true breast 
Bleedeth for both : yet it may be 

That only silence suiteth best. 

Words weaker than your grief would make 
Grief more. 'Twere better 1 should cease ; 

Although myself could almost take 

The place of him that sleeps in peace. 

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace ; 

Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul. 
While the stars burn, the moons increase, 

And the great ages onward roll. 

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. 

Nothing comes to thee new or strange. 
Sleep full of rest from head to feet ; 

Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. 



YotT ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, 
Within this region I subsist. 
Whose spirits falter in the mist, 

And languish for the purple seas? 

It is the land that freemen till. 

That sober-suited Freedom chose. 

The land, where girt with friends or foes 

A man may speak the thing he will ; 

A land of settled government, 

A land of just and old renown. 
Where fi«edom broadens slowly down 

From precedent to precedent; 



Where faction seldom gathers head. 
But by degrees to fulness wrought. 
The strength of some dift'usive thought 

Hath time and space to work and spread. 

Should banded unions persecute 
Opinion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil crime. 

And individual freedom mute ; 

Tho' Power should make from land to laud 
The name of Britain tiebly great — 
Tho' every channel of the State 
Should almost choke with golden sand- 
Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth. 
Wild wind '. I seek a warmer sky, 
And I will see before 1 die 
The palms and temples of the South. 



Of old sat Freedom on the heights. 
The tliunders breaking at her feet: 

Above her shook the starry liglits: 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoice, 
Self-gather'd in her prophet-niiud. 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Come rolling on the wind. 

Then slept she down thro' town and field 
To mingle with the human race. 

And part by part to men reveal'd 
The fulness of her face — 

Grave mother of majestic works, 
From her isle-altar gazing down. 

Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, 
And, King-like, wears the crown : 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

The wisdom of a thousand years 
Is in them. May perpetual youth 

Keep dry their light from tears ; 

That her fair form may stand and shine. 

Make bright our days and light our dreams 

Turning to scorn with lips divine 
The falsehood of extremes 1 



Love thou thy land, with love far-brought 
From out the storied Past, and used 
Within the Present, but transfused 

Thro' future time by power of thought 

Trne love turn'd round on fixed poles, 
Love, that endures not sordid ends. 
For English natures, freemen, friends. 

Thy brothers and immortal souls. 

But pamper not a hasty time. 
Nor feed with crude imaginings 
The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings, 

That every sophister can lime. 

Deliver not the tasks of might 
To weakness, neither hide the ray 
From those, not blind, who wait for dny. 

Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 



42 



THE GOOSE. 



Make knowledge circle with the wiuds: 
But let her herald, Revereuce, fly 
Before her to whatever sky 

Bear seed of meu aud growth of minds. 

Watch what main-currents draw the years: 
Cut Prejudice against the grain: 
But gentle words are always gain : 

Regard the weakness of thy peers : 

Nor toil for title, place, or touch 
Of pension, neither count on praise: 
It grows to guerdon after-days : 

Nor deal in watch-words over-much ; 

Not clinging to some ancient saw; 

Not master'd by some modern term ; 

Not swift or slow to change, but firm : 
And in its season bring the law; 

That from Discussion's lip may fall 
With Life, that, working strongly, binds — 
Set in all lights by many minds, 

To close the interests of all. 

For Nature, also, cold aud warm, 
Aud moist and dry, devising long. 
Thro' many agents making strong, 

Matures the individual form. 

Meet is It changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
We all are changed by still degrees, 

All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be free 
To ingroove itself with that, which flies, 
Aud work, a joint of state, that plies 

Its office, moved with sympathy. 

A saying, h.ard to shape in act ; 
For all the past of Time reveals 
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, 

Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. 

Ev'n now v/e hear with inward strife 
A motion toiling in the gloom — 
The Spirit of the years to come 

Yearning to mix himself with Life. 

A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a painful school ; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule. 

New Majesties of mighty States — 

The warders of the growing hour, 
But vague in vapor, hard to mark ; 
And round them sea and air are dark 

With great contrivances of Power. 

Of many changes, aptly join'd. 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Regard gradation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind ; 

A wind to puff" your idol-fires, 
And heap their ashes on the head ; 
To shame the boast so often made, 

That we are wiser than our sires. 

O yet, if Nature's evil star 
Drive men in manhood, as in youth, 
To follow flying steps of Truth 

Across the brazen bridge of war— 

If New and Old, disastrous feud. 
Must ever shock, like armed foes, 
Aud this be true, till Time shall close, 

That Principles are rain'd in blood; 



Not yet the wise of heart would cease 
To hold his hope thro' shame aud guilt, 
But with his hand against the hilt, 

Would pace the troubled laud, like Peace 

Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay. 
Would serve his kind in deed and word. 
Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, 

That knowledge takes the sword away— 

Would love the gleams of good that brokt 
Prom either side, nor veil his eyes : 
And if some dreadful need should rise 

Would strike, aud firmly, and one stroke 

To-morrow yet would reap to-daj', 
As we bear blossom of the dead ; 
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed 

Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 



THE GOOSE. 

I KNEW an old wife lean and poor. 

Her rags scarce held together ; 
There strode a stranger to the door, 

And it was windy weather. 

He held a goose upon his arm. 

He utter'd rhyme and reason, 
"Here, take the goose, and keep you warm. 

It is a stormy season." 

She caught the white goose by the leg. 

A goose — 'twas no great matter. 
The goose let fall a golden egg 

With cackle and with clatter. 

She dropt the goose, and caught the pcl^ 

Aud rau to tell her neighbors ; 
And bless'd herself, and cursed herself, 

And rested from her labors. 

And feeding high, and living soft. 

Grew plump and able-bodied ; 
Lentil the grave churchwarden dofiTd, 

The parson smirk'd and nodded. 

So sitting, served by man and maid, 
She felt her heart grow prouder: 

But ah ! the more the white goose laid 
It clack'd and cackled louder. 

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there ; 

It stirr'd the old wife's mettle: 
She shifted in her elbow-chair, 

Aud hurl'd the pan and kettle. 

" A quinsy choke thy cursed note !" 
Then wax'd her anger stronger. 

"Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, 
I will not bear it longer." 

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat-, 

Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer, 
The goose flew this way and flew that, 

And fill'd the house with clamor. 

As head and heels upon the floor 

They floundered all together, 
There strode a stranger to the door, 

And it was windy weather : 

He took the goose upon his arm, 

He utter'd words of scorning ; 
" So keep yon cold, or keep you warm, 

It is a stormy morning." 



THE EPIC. 



43 




' Aa head and heel8 upon the floor 

They floundered all together, 
There strode a stranger to the door.*' 



The wild wind rang from park and plain, 
And round the attics rumbled, 

Till all the tables danced again, 
And half the chimneys tumbled. 

The glass blew in, the fire blew out, 
The blast was hard and harder. 



Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, 
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder; 

And while on all sides breaking loose 
Her household fled the danger, 

Quoth she, "The Devil take the goose, 
And God forget the stranger !" 



ENGLISH IDYLS AND OTHER POEMS. 

(Published 1842.) 



f A few poems in thia division were inserted later.] 



THE EPIC. 

At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve, — 
The game of forfeits done— the girls all kiss'd 
Beneath the sacred bush and past away — 
The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, 
The host, and I sat rouud the wassail-bowl. 
Then half-way ebb'd: and there we held a talk, 
How all the old honor had from Christmas gone. 
Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games 
In some odd nooks like this ; till I, tired out 
With cutting eights that day upon the pond, 
Where, three times slipping from the outer edge, 
I bump'd the ice into three several stars. 
Fell in a doze ; and half-awake I heard 
The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, 
Now harping on the church-commissioners, 
Now hawking at Geology and schism ; 
Until I woke, and found him settled down 
Upon the general decay of faith 
Right thro' the world, "at home was little left. 
And n(me abroad: there was no anchor, none, 
To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his hand 
On Everard's shoulder, with " I hold by him." 



"And I," quoth Everard, "by tne wassail-bowl." 

"Why yes," I said, " we knew your gift that way 

At college : but another which you had — 

I mean of verse (for so we held it then,) 

What came of that?" "You know," said Frank, 

" he burnt 
His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books"— 
And then to me demanding why? " O, sir. 
He thought that nothing new was said, or else 
Something so said 'twas nothing— that a truth 
Looks freshest in the fashion of the day: 
God knows : he has a mint of reasons : ask. 
It pleased me well enough." "Nay, nay," said Hall, 
" Why take the style of those heroic times ? 
For nature brings not back the Mastodon, 
Nor we those times ; and why should any man 
Remodel models ? these twelve books of mine 
Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth. 
Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt." " But I." 
Said Francis, " pick'd the eleventh from this hearth. 
And have it : keep a thing, its use will come. 
I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." 
He laugh'd, and I, though sleepy, like a horse 
That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears; 



44 



MOKTE D'ARTHUK. 



For I remember'd Everard's college fame 
When we were Fieshmeu : then at my request 
He brought it; and the poet, little urged, 
But with some prelude of disparagement, 
Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, 
Deep-chested music, and to this result. 



MORTE DARTHUR. 

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 

Among the mountains by the winter sea; 

Until King Arthur's table, man by man. 

Had falTu in Lyonness about their Lord, 

King Arthur : then, because his wound was deep, 

The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 

Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights. 

And bore him to a chapel nigh the lield, 

A broken chancel with a broken cross, 

That stood on a dark strait of barren laud. 

On one side lay the Ocean, and on one 

Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
" The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep 
They sleep— the nieu I loved. I think that we 
Shall never more, at any future time, 



Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — "^~ 
Tiio' Merlin sware that I should come again 
To rule once more — but let what will be, be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake. 
Clothed in while samite, mystic, wonderful, 
Holding the sword — and how I rowed across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a king: 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In aftertime, this also shall be known : 
But now delay not: take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle mere : 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.' 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
"It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Yet I thy best will all perform at full. 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." 

So saying, from the ruined shrine he stept 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men. 




FoBP up from out the bosom of the lake, 
Clothed in white eamite." 



MORTE D'AETHUR. 



4r, 



nid kuights, and over them the sea-wind sung 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down 
tiy zig-zag paths, and jnts of pointed rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, 
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: 
For all the haft twinkled wi'.h diamond studs, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, 
This way and that dividing the swift mind, 
In act to throw: 'but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur couceal'd 
There in the many-knotted waterflags. 
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded king. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
"Hast thou performed my mission which I gave? 
What is it thou hast seen or what 'hast heard?" 

.\nd answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
■" I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 
And the wHd water lapping on tee iirag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faiut and pale : 
"Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name. 
Not rendering true answer, as beseeiu'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: 
For surer sign had follow'd, either hautl, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thin? 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me w>rd." 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the nioro, 
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd 'n thought. ; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud. 

"And if indeed I oast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 
Should thus be lost forever from the earth. 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. 
What good should follow this, if this were done? 
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,' 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprotitable, against himself? 
The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 
And rumors of a doubt ? but were this kept. 
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, 
Some one might show it at a joust of arms. 
Saying, ' King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame were lost." 

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit. 
And hid Excalibur the second time. 
And so strode back slow to the w(mnded King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily : 
" What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
"I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds." 

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: 
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 
Authority forgets a dying Icing, 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eve 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art. 
For thou, the latest left of all my knights. 
In whom should meet the offices of all. 



Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; 

Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 

Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes 

Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice. 

And the third time may prosper, get thee heuce : 

But, if thou spaie to fling Excalibur, 

I will arise and slay tliee with my hands." 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran. 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword. 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brai.d 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon. 
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in au 

arch. 
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn. 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the northern sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur: 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Cloth'd in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: 

" Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. 
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 
Should blind my pui-pose, for I never saw. 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die. 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm. 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in tlie mere." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard : 
" My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I were gone, 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 

So saying, from the pavement he half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found not words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew t'r.e languid hands, 
And rising bore him thro' the place ot tombs. 

But, as he walk'd. King Arthur panted hard. 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear "Quick, quick ' 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge. 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels — 
And on a sudden, lo ! the level lake, 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern. 
Beneath them : and descending they were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately form.* 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 
itlhree Queeus with crowns of gold— and from thciii 
rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills 



4(! 



MORTE D'ARTHUR. 



All night in a waste land, where no one comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me in the barge," 
And to the barge they came. There those three 

Queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. 
But she that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, 
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, 
And dropping bitter tears against his brow 
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white 
And colorless, and like the wither'd moon 
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; 



"Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? 
For now I see the true old times are dead, 
When every morning brought a noble chance, 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light hath led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole rouni) taisle is dissolved 
Which was an image of the mighty world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and the years, 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 

And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge; 
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 




" Laid his head upon her lap, 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, 
And called him by his name." 



And fill his greaves and enlsses dash'd with drops 
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls— 
That made his forehead like a rising sun 
High from the dais-throne— were parch'd with dust; 
<0r, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
Wix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 
So like a shatter'd column lay the King; 
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, 
From spur to piumc a star of tournament. 
Shot thro' the Jists at Camelot, and charged 
Before the eyes of iadies and of kings. 
Uheu joudiy cried the bold Sir Bedivere, 



And God fulfils himself in many ways, 

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 

Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 

I have lived my life, and that which I have dons 

May He within himself make pure ! but thou, 

If thou shouldst never see my face again. 

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 

Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 

Pise like a fountain for me night and day. 

For what are men better than sheep or goats 

That nourish a blind life within the brain. 

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. 



ft 



Both for themselves and those who call them frieud? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am gointi; a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) 
To ttie island-valley of Avilion ; 
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow. 
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies 
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer .sea. 
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." 
So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan — 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death. 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 



Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long 
Had wink'd and threaten'd darkuess, flared and fell : 
At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound. 
And waked with silence, grunted "Good!" but we 
Sat rapt : it was the toue with which he read — 
Perhaps some modern touches here and there 
Redeem'd it from the charge of nothingness — 
Or else we loved the man, and prized his work ; 
I know not : but we sitting, as I said. 
The cock crew loud ; as at that time of year 
The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn : 
Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used, 
" There now — that's nothiug !" drew a little back, 
And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log. 
That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue : 
And so to bed ; where yet in sleep I seem'd 
To sail with Arthur under looming shores. 
Point after point ; till on to dawn, when dreams 
Begin to feel the truth and stir of day. 
To me, methought, who waited with a crowd, 
There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore 
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman 
Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, 
"Arthur is come again: he cannot die." 
Then those that stood upon the hills behind 
Repeated— " Come again, and thrice as fair;" 
And, further inland, voices echoed — " Come 
With all good things, and war shall be uo more." 
At this a hundred bells began to peal. 
That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed 
The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn. 



THE GARDENERS DAUGHTER; OR, 

THE PICTURES. 

Tuis morning is the morning of the day, 
When I and Eustace from the city went 
To see the Gardener's Daughter; I and he. 
Brothers in Art ; a friendship so complete 
Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew 
The fable of the city where we dwelt. 

My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; 
So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. 
He, by some law that holds in love, and draws 
The greater to the lesser, long desired 
A certain miracle of symmetry, 
A miniature of loveliness, all grace 
Summ'd up and closed in little ;— Juliet, she 
So light of foot, so light of spirit— oh, she 
To me myself, for some three careless moons. 
The summer pilot of an ejnpty heart 
Unto the shores of nothing ! Know you not 
Such touches are but embassies of love, 
To tamper with the feelings, ere he found 

4 



Empire for life? but Eustace painted her, 
And said to me, she sittiug with us then, 
"When will i/uu paint like this?" and I replied, 
(My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) 
"'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceiveO, 
A more ideal Artist he than all, 
Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes 
Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair 
More black than ashbuds in the front of March." 
And Juliet answer'd laughing, " Go and see 
The. Gardener's daughter: trust me, after that, 
You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece." 
And up we rose, and on the spur we went. 

Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
Beyond it, hlooms the garden that I love. 
News from the humming city comes to it 
la sound of funeral or of marriage bells ; 
And, sitting mufHed iu dark leaves, you hear 
The windy clanging of the minstei- clock; 
Although between it and the garden lies 
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream. 
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar, 
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on. 
Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge 
Crown'd with the minster towers. 

The fields between 
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd kine, 
And all about the large lime feathers low, 
The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. 

In that still place she, hoarded in herself, 
Grew, seldom seen : not less among us lives 
Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard 
Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter? Where was he^ 
So blunt in memory, so old at heart. 
At such a distance from his youth in grief, 
That, having seen, forgot ? The common mouth 
So gross to express delight, in praise of her 
Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, 
And Beauty such a mistress ol the world. 

And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, 
Would play with flying forms and images, 
Yet this is aiso true, that, long before 
I look'd upon her, when I heard her name 
My heart was like a prophet to my heart 
And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes, 
That sought to sow themselves like winged sieeds, 
Born out of everything I heard and saw, 
Flutter'd about my senses and my soul; 
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm 
To one that travels quickly, made the air 
Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought. 
That verged upon them, sweeter than the dream 
Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark East, 
Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn. 

And sure this orbit of the memory folds 
Forever in itself the day we went 
To see her. All the land in flowery squares 
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, 
Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud 
Drew downward; but all else of Heaven was pure 
Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge. 
And May with me from head to heel. And now. 
As tho' 't were yesterday, as tho' it were 
The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound, 
(For those old Mays had thrice the life of these,) 
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze. 
And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood 
Leaning his horns into the neighbor field. 
And lowing to his fellows. From the woods 
Came voices of the well-contented doves. 
The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy. 
But shook his song together as he near'd 
His happy home, the ground. To left and right. 
The cuckoo told his name to all the hills ; 
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm ; 
The redcap whistled; and the nightingale 
Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day. 

And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said to me. 



48 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER 



" Hear how the bushes echo ! by mj' life, 

These birds have joyful thoughts. Tbiuk you they 

slug 
Like poets, from the van'ty of song? 
Or have they auy sense of why they sing f 
And would they praise the heavens for what they 

have ?" 
And I made answer, " Were there nothing else 
For which to praise the heavens but only love. 
That only love were cause enough for praise." 

Lightly he langh'd, as one that read my thought, 
And on we went; but ere an hour had pass'd. 
We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North ; 
Down which a well-worn pathway courted us 
To one green wicket in a privet hedge ; 
This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk 
Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned ; 
And one warm gust, fuli-fed with perfume, blew 
Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. 
The garden stretches southward. In the midst 
A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade. 
The garden-glasses shone, and momently 
The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights. 

"Eustace," I said, "this wonder keeps the house." 
He nodded, but a moment afterwards 
He cried, " Look ! look !" Before he ceased I turu'd, 
And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. 

For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose, 
That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught. 
And blown across the walk. One arm aloft — 
Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape — 
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. 
A single stream of all her soft brown hair 
Pour'd on one side : the shadow of the flowers 
Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering 
Lovingly li>wer, trembled on her waist — 
Ah, happy shade— and still went wavering down. 
But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced 
The greensward into greener circles, dipt. 
And mix'd with shadows of the common ground ! 
But the full day dwelt on her brows, and suuu'd 
Her violei eyes, and all her Hebe-bloom, 
And doubled his own warmth against her lips, 
And on the bounteous wave of such a breast 
As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade. 
She stood, a sight to make an old man young. 

So rapt, we near'd the house ; but she, a Rose 
In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, 
Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turu'd 
Into the world without; till close at hand. 
And almost ere I knew mine own intent, 
This murmur broke the stillness of that air 
Which brooded round about her: 

" Ah, one rose, 
One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd. 
Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips 
Less exquisite than thir.e." 

She look'd : but all 
Suffused wlih blushes — neither self-possess'd 
Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that. 
Divided in a graceful quiet — paused, 
And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound 
Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips 
For some sweet answer, tho' no answer came, 
Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it. 
And moved away, and left me, statue-like. 
In act to render thanks. 

I, that whole day, 
Siw her no more, altho' I linu;er'd there 
Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star 
Beam'd thro' the thicken' d cedar in the du^k. 

So home we went, and all the livelong way 
With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. 
"Now," said he, "will yon climb the top of Art. 
Yon cannot fail but work in hues to dim 
The Titianic Flora. Will you match 
My Juliet? you, not you,— the Master, Love, 
k more ideal Artist he than all." 



So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, 
Reading her perfect features in the gloom. 
Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er, 
And shaping faithful record of the glance 
That graced the giving— such a noise of life 
Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice 
Call'd to me from the years to come, and such 
A length of bright horizon riram'd the dark. 
And all that night I heard the watchmen peal 
The sliding season : all that night I heard 
The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours. 
The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good. 
O'er the mute city stole with folded wings, 
Distilling odors on me as they went 
To greet their fairer sisters of the Bast. 

Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all. 
Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor stornj 
Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt. 
Light ijretexts drew me: sometimes a Dutch love 
For tulips ; then for roses, moss or musk. 
To grace my city-rooms: or fruits and cream 
Served in the weeping elm; and more and more 
A word could bring the color to my cheek ; 
A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew; 
Love trebled life within me, and with each 
The year increased. 

The daughters of the year. 
One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd: 
Each garlanded with her peculiar flower 
Danced into light, and died into the shade: 
And each in passing touch'd with some new grace 
Or seeni'd to touch her, so that day by day. 
Like one that never can be wholly known. 
Her beauty grew ; till Autumn brought an hour 
For Eustace, when I heard his deep " I will," 
Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold 
From thence thro' all the worlds ; but I rose up 
Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes 
Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach'd 
The wicket-gate, and found her standing there. 

There sat we down upon a garden mound, 
Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third, 
Between us, in the circle of his arms 
Enwound us both ; and over many a range 
Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers. 
Across a hazy glimmer of the west, 
Reveal'd their shining windows: from them clash d 
The bells; we listen'd; with the time we play'd; 
We spoke cf other things ; we coursed about 
The subject most at heart, more near and near, 
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round 
The central wish, until we settled there. 

Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her, 
Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own. 
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, 
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, 
A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved ; 
And in that time and place she answer'd me, 
And in the compass of three little words. 
More musical than ever came in one. 
The silver fragments of a broken voice. 
Made me most happy, faltering "I am thine." 

Shall I cease here? Is this enough to say 
That my desire, like all strongest hopes. 
By its own energy fulfill'd itself, 
Merged in completion ? Would you learn at full 
How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades 
Beyond all grades develop'd? and indeed 
I had not stayed so long to tell you all. 
But while I mused came Memory with sad eyee, 
Holding the folded annals of my youth: 
And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by, 
And with a flying finger swept my lips. 
And spake, " Be wise : not easily forgiven 
.\re those, who, setting wide the doors that bar 
The secret bridal chaml)ers of the heart. 
Let in the day." Here, then, my words have end. 

Y'et might I tell of meetings, of farewells — 



DORA. 



49 



Of that which came between, more sweet than each, 
lu whispers, like the whispers of the leaves 
That tremble round a nightingale — in sighs 
Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utterance, 
Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell 
Of diflereuce, reconcilement, pledges given. 
And vows, where there was never need of vows, 
And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap 
Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above 
The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale 
Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars; 
Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit. 
Spread the light haze along the river-shores, 
And in the hol'.ows ; or as once we met 
Unheedfiil, tho' beneath a whispering rain 
Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind. 
And in her bosom bore the baby. Sleep. 

But this whole hour your eyes have been intent 
On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for what it holds 
May not be dwelt on by the common day. 
This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul ; 
Make thine heart ready with thine eyes ; t!ie time 
Is come to raise the veil. 

Behold her there, 
As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, 
My tirst, last love ; the idol of my youth, 
The darling of my manhood, and, alas ! 
Now the most blessed memory of mine age. 



DORA. 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 

William and Dora. William was his son, 

And she his niece. lie often look'd at them, 

And often thought "I'll make them man and wife." 

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all. 

And yearn'd towards William ; but the youth, because 

He had been always with her in the house. 

Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My sou: 
I married late, but I would wish to see 
My grandchild on my knees before I die: 
And I have set my heart upon a nuxtch. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter: he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died 
3n foreign lauds; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora ; take her for your wife ; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, 
For many years." But William answer'd short : 
" I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
I will not marry Dora." Then the old man ^ 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said : 
" You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus 1 
But in my time a father's word was law, 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to it: 
Consider, William : take a month to think, 
And let me have an answer to my wish ; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, 
And never more darken my doors again." 
But William answer'd madly ; bit his lips, 
And broke away. The more he look'd at her 
The less he liked her ; and his ways were harsh ; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 
The month was out he left his father's house. 
And hired himself to work within the fields; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed 
A laborer s aaughter, Mary Morrison. 

Then when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd 
His niece and said : " My girl, 1 love you well : 
But if you speak with him that was my son, 
Or change a word with her he calls his wife, 
My home is none of yours. My will is law." 



And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 
" It cannot be : my uncle's mind will change !" 

And days went on, and there was born a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on him ; 
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not, 
But Dora stored what little she could save, 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest time he died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And look'd with tears upon hsr boy, and thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: 

" I have obey'd my uncle until now, 
And I have siun'd, for it was all thro' me 
Tills evil came on William at the first. 
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, 
And for your sake, the woman that he chose, 
And for this orphan, I am come to you : 
Vou know there has not been for these five years 
So full a harvest : let me take the boy, 
And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy. 
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." 

And Dora took the child, and went her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
Far oft" the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not; but ncme of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to him. 
But her heart fail'd her ; and the reapers reap'd, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

But when the morrow came, she rose and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the mound ; 
And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
That grew about, and tied It round his hat 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field 
He spied her, and he left his men at work, 
And came and said: "Where were you yesterday! 
Whose child is that? What are you doing here?" 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground. 
And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!" 
"And did I not," said Allan, "did I not 
Forbid jou, Dora?" Dora said again, 
" Do with me as you will, but take the child 
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone !" 
And Allan said, "I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 
I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
You knew my word was law, and yet you dared 
To slight it. Well— for I will take the boy: 
But go you hence, and never see me more." 

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell 
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, 
And the boy's cry came to her from the field. 
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, 
Remembering the day when first she came, 
And all the things that had been. She bow'd down 
And wept in secret ; and the reapers reap'd. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise 
To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with you; 
He says that he will never see me more " 
Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be. 
That them shouldst take my trouble on thyself: 
And now I think, he shall not have the boy, 
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight 
His mother; therefore thou and I will go 
And I will have my boy, and bring him home 
And I will beg of him to take thee back • 



50 



AUDLEY COUliT.— WALiaNG TO THE M.ITL. 



But if he will not take thee back again, 
Then thou and I will live within one hoase, 
And work for William's child, until he grows 
Of age to help us." 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. 
The door was off the latch : they peep'd, and saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees. 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm. 
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, 
Like one that loved him: and the lad stretch'd out 
And Dabbled for the golden seal, that hung 
' From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the lire. 
Then they came in : but when the boy beheld 
His mother, he cried oat to come to her : 
And Allan set him down, and Mary said: 
"O Father — if yon let me call you so — 
I never came a-begging for myself 
Or William, or this child : but now I come 
For Dira: take her back: she loves you well. 

Sir, when William died, he died at peace 
With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he said. 
He could not ever rue his marrying me — 

1 had been a patient wife: but. Sir, he said 
That he was wrong to cross his father thus: 

' God bless him '.' he said, 'and may he never know 
The troubles I have gone thro' '.' Then he tum'd 
His face and pass'd— unhappy that I am '. 
But now. Sir, let me have my boy. for you 
Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight 
His father's memory: and take Dora back. 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the room ; 
And all at once the old man burst in sobs : 

"I have been to blame— to blame. I have Mll'd 
my son. 
I have kill'd him— but I loved him — my dear son. 
May God forgive me '. — I have been to blame. 
Kiss me, my children." 

Then they clung about 
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. 
And all the man was broken with remorse: 
And all his love came back a hundred fold : 
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child. 
Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together: and as years 
Went forward, Mary took another mate ; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 



AUDLEY COURT. 

"Tht Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a room 
For love or money. Let ns picnic there 
At Andley Court." 

I spoke, while Audley feast 
Hnmm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay. 
To Francis, with a basket on his arm. 
To Francis just alighted from the boat. 
And breathing of the sea. " With all my heart" 
Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro' the swarm. 
And rounded by the stillness of the beach 
To where the bay runs up its latest horn. 

We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd 
The flat red granite : so by many a sweep 
Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd 
The griffin-guarded gates, and pass'd thro' all 
The pillar'd dusk of sounding sycamores. 
And cross'd the garden to the gardener's lodge, 
With all its casements bedded, and its walls 
And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. 

There on a slopye of orchard. Francis laid 
A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound. 
Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, 
And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly made. 



Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay. 
Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks 
Imbedded and injellied : last, with these, 
A flask of cider from his father's vats, 
Prime, which I knew ; and so we sat and eat 
And talk'd old matters over: who was dead, 
Who married, who was like to be, and how 
The races went, and who would rent the hall. 
Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce it was 
This season ; glancing thence, discuss'd the farm. 
The fourfield system, and the price of grain ; 
And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split. 
And came again together on the king 
With heated faces : till he langh'd aloud : 
And, while the blackbird on the pippin hting 
To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang: 
" O, who woiUd flght and march and counter- 
march. 
Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field. 
And shovell'd up into a bloody trench 
Where no one knows? but let me live my life. 

"O, who wouid cast and balance at a desk, 
Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool, 
Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints 
Are fall of chalk? but let me live my life. 

'•Who'd serve the state? for if I carved my nam« 
Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, 
I might as well have traced it in the sands ; 
The sea wastes all : but let me live my life. 

"O, who would love? I woo'd a woman once. 
But she was sharper than an eastern wind. 
And all my heart turn'd from her, as a thorn 
Turns from the sea : but let me live my life." 
He sang his song, and I replied with mine: 
I found it in a volume, all of songs, 
Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's pride. 
His books — the more the pity, so I said — 
Came to the hammer here in March — and this — 
I set the words, and added names I knew. 

" Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me : 
Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm. 
And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. 

" Sleep, Ellen, folded in EmOia's arm ; 
Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, 
For thou an fairer than all else that is. 

" Sleep, breathing health and peace upon hej 
breast. 
Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip : 
I so to-night : I come to-morrow mom. 

"I go, but I return : I would I were 
The pilot of the darkness and the dream. 
Sleep, Ellen Anbrey, love, and dream of me." 

So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, 
The farmer's son who lived across the bay. 
My friend : and I, that having wherewithal, 
Xud in the fallow leisure of my life. 
Did what I would : but ere tte night we rose 
And saunter'd home beneath a m<x>n, that, just 
In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf 
Twilights of airy silver, till we reach'd 
j The limit of the hills : and as we sank 
I From rock to rock upon the glooming qnay, 
I The town was hush'd beneath ns : lower down 
■ The bay was oily-calm : the harbor-bnoy 
• With one green sparkle ever and anon 
Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. 



WALKING TO THE MAIL. 

John. I 'm glad I walk'd. How fresh the mead 
ows look 
Above the river, and. but a month ago. 
The whole hillside was redder than a fox. 
I Is yon plantation where this byway joiiis 
, The turnpike ? 

James. Tes. 



EDWIN MORRIS. 



Jonn. And when does this come by ? 

JamcK. The mail? At one o'clock. 

John. What is it now? 

James. A quarter to. 

John. Whose house is that I see ? 

No, not the Comity Member's with the vane : 
Up higher with the yewtree by it, and half 
A score of gables. 

JameK That? Sir Edward Head's: 

But he 's abroad : the place is to be sold. 

John. O, his. He was not broken. 

James. No, sir, he, 

Vex'd with a morbid devil in his blood 
That veil'd the world with jaundice, hid his face 
From all men, and commercing with himself, 
He lost the sense that handles daily life — 
That keeps us all in order more or less — 
And sick of home went overseas for change. 

John. And whither ? 

James. Xay, who knows? he's here and there. 
But let him go : his devil goes with him. 
As well as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes. 

Joh)i. What's that? 

James. You saw the roan — on Monday, was it ?— 
There by the hnmpback'd willow ; half stands up 
And bristles ; half has fall'n and made a bridge ; 
And there he caught the younker tickling trout — 
Caught ia flagrante — what's the Latin word? — 
Delicto: bnt his house, for so they say, 
Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook 
The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors, 
And rummaged like a rat : no servants stay'd : 
The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs. 
And all his household stuff : and with this boy 
Detvixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt. 
Pets out, and meets a friend who hails him, "What ! 
You 're flitting I" " Yes. we 're flitting," says the 

ghost, 
fFor they had pack'd the thing among the beds,) 
"O well," says he, "'you flitting with us too — 
Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again." 

John. He left his wife behind ; for so I heard. 

James. He left her, yes. I met my lady once: 
A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. 

John. O yet but I remember, ten years back — 
T is now at least ten years — and then she was — 
Yon could not light upon a sweeter thing: 
A body slight and round, and like a pear 
In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot 
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin 
As clean and white as privet when it flowers. 

James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that 
loved 
At first like dove and dove were cat and dog. 
She was the daughter of a cottager, 
Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride, 
New things and old, himself and her, she sour'd 
To what she is: a nature never kind! 
Like men, like manners: like breeds like, they say. 
Kind nature is the best: those manners next 
That fit us like a nature second-hand ; 
Which are indeed the manners of the great. 

John. Bnt I had heard it was this bill that past. 
And fear of change at home, that drove him hence. 

James. That was the last drop in his cup of gall. 
I once was near him, when his bailiff" brought 
A Chartist pike. You should have seen him wince 
As from a venomous thing; he thought himself 
A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a cry 
Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes 
Should see the raw mechanic's bloody thumbs 
Sweat on his blazon'd chairs; but, sir, you know 
That these two parties still divide the world — 
Of those that want, and those that have: and still 
The same old sore breaks out from age to age 
With much the same result. Now I myself, 
A Tory to the quick, was as a boy 
Destructive, when I had not what I would. 



I was at school— a college in the South : 
There lived a flayfliut near: we stole his fruit, 
His hens, his eggs; but there was law for ns; 
We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. She, 
With meditative grunts of much content. 
Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and mud- 
By night we dragg'd her to the college tower 
From her warm bed, aud up the corkscrew stair 
With hand and rope we haled the groaning sow. 
And on the leads we kept her till she pigg'd. 
Large range of prospect had the mother sow, 
And but for daily loss of one she loved, 
As one by one we took them — but for this — 
As never sow was higher in this world — 
Might have been happy: but what lot is pure? 
We took them all, till she was left alone 
Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine, 
And so returu'd unfarrow'd to her sty. 

John. They found you out? 

.fames. Not they. 

Joh7i. Well— after all-. 

What know we of the secret of a man? 
His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are 

sound, 
That we should mimic this raw fool the world, 
Which charts ns all in its coarse blacks or whites, 
As ruthless as a baby with a worm. 
As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows 
To Pity— more from ignorance than will. 

But put your best foot forward, or I fear 
That we shall miss the mail : and here it comes 
With five at top : as quaint a four-iu-haud 
As you shall see— three piebalds and a roan. 



EDWIN MORRIS ; OR, THE LAKE. 

O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake. 
My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters of a year, 
My one Oasis in the dust and drouth 
Of city life ; I was a sketcher then : 
See here, my doing: curves of mountain, bridge. 
Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built 
When men knew how to bui'.d, upon a rock. 
With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock : 
And here, new-comers in an ancient hold. 
New-comers from the Mersey, millionnaires. 
Here lived the Hills — a Tndor-chimnej'ed bulk 
Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. 

O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake 
With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull 
The curate; he was fatter than his cnre. 

Bnt Edwin Morris, he that knew the names, 
Long learned names of agaric, moss, and fern. 
Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks. 
Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim, 
Who read me rhymes elaborately good. 
His own— I call'd him Cricht<n], for he seem'd 
All-perfect, finish'd to the finger nail. 

And once I ask'd him of his early life, 
And his first passion ; and he answer'd me ; 
And well his words became him : was he not 
A fuU-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence 
Stored from all flowers? Poet-like he spoke. 

"My love for Nature is as old as I; 
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that, 
And three rich sennights more, my love for her. 
My love for Nature aud my love for her, 
Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew. 
Twin-sisters diflferently beautiful. 
To some full music rose and sank the sun. 
And some full music seem'd to move and change 



52 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 



With all the varied changes of the dark, 
And either twilijjht and the day between; 
For daily hope fiiltill'd, to rise again 
Revolving toward fnlfilnient, made it sweet 
To walk, to sit, to sleep, to breathe, to wake." 

Or this or something like to this he spoke. 
Ttieu said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull : 

"I take it, God made the woman for the man. 
And for the good and increase of the world. 
A pretty face is well, and this is well. 
To have a dame indoors, that trims us up, 
And keeps us tight; but these unreal ways 
Seem but the theme of writers, and indeed 
Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff. 
I say, God made the woman for the man. 
And for the good and increase of the world." 

"Parson," said I, "you pitch the pipe too low: 
But I have sudden touches, and can run 
My faith beyond my practice into his : 
Tho' if, in dancing after I^etty Hill, 
I do not hear the bells upon my cap, 
I scarce hear other music : yet say on. 
What should one give to light ou such a dream?" 
I ask'd him half-sardouically. 

"Give? 
Give all thou art," he auswer'd, and a light 
or laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek ; 
"I would have hid her needle in my heart, 
To save her little tlnger from a scratch 
No deeper than the skin : my ears could hear 
Her lightest breaths: her least remark was worth 
The experience of the wise. I went and came; 
Her voice tied always thro' the summer land ; 
I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days ! 
Tlie flower of each, those moments when we met, 
The crown of all, we met to part no more." 

Were not his words delicious, I a beast 
To take them as I did ? but something jarr'd ; 
Whether he spoke too largely; that there seem'd 
A touch of something fiilse, some self-conceit. 
Or over-smoothness : howso'er it was. 
He scarcely hit my humor, and I said : 

" Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone 
Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me. 
As in the Latin song I learnt at school, 
Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and left? 
But you can talk : yours is a kindly vein : 
I have, I think,— Heaven knows— as much within ; 
Have, or should have, but for a thought or two. 
That like a purple beech among the greens 
Looks out of place: 't is from no want in her: 
It is my shyness, or my self-distrnst. 
Or something of a wayward modern mind 
Dissecting passion. Time will set me right." 

So spoke I knowing not the things that were. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull 
" God made the woman for the use of man, 
And for the good and increase of the world." 
And I and Edwin laugh'd ; and now we paused 
About the windings of the marge to hear 
The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms 
And alders. L'arden-isles ; and now we left 
The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran 
By ripply shallows of the lisping lake. 
Delighted with the freshness and the sound. 

But, when the bracken rusted on their crags. 
My suit had witherM, nipt to death by him 
That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk. 
The rcntroll Cupid of oin- rainy isles. 
'Tis true, we met; one hour I had, no more: 
She sent a note, the seal an Elle vous suit. 



The close "Your Letty, only yours;" and this 
Thrice underscored. The friendly mist ol morn 
Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran 
My craft aground, and heard with beating heart 
The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelving keel: 
And out I slept, and up I crept ; she moved. 
Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers: 
Then low and sweet I whistled thrice ; and she. 
She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore faith, 1 

breathed 
In some new planet : a silent consiu stole 
Upon us and departed: "Leave," she cried, 

"O leave me!" "Never, dearest, never: here 
I l)rave tlie worst:" and while we stood like fools 
Embracing, all at once a score of pngs 
And poodles yell'd within, and out they came 
Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. "What, with him !" 
"Go" (shrill'd the cottonspinning chorus) "him!" 
I choked. Again they shriek'd the burthen " Uim !" 
Again wiih hands of wild rejection "Go! — 
Girl, get you in !" She went— and in one month 
They wedded her to sixty th<msand pounds. 
To lands in Kent and messuages in York, 
And slight Sir Robert with his watery smile 
And educated wliisker. But for me. 
They set an ancient creditor to work: 
It seems I broke a close with force and arms: 
There came a mystic token from the king 
To greet the sheriff", needless courtesy ! 
I read, and fled by night, and flying turn'd: 
Her taper glimmer'd in the lake below: 
I turn'd once more, close button'd to the storm j 
So left the place, left Edwin, nor have seen 
Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to hear. 

Nor cared to hear? perhaps: yet long ago 
I have pardon'd little Letty: not indeed. 
It may be, for her own dear sake but this, 
She seems a part of those fresh days to me ; 
For in the dust and drouth of Loudon life 
She moves among my visions of the lake. 
While the prime swalfow dips his wing, or then 
While the gold-lily blows, and overhead 
Tlie light cloud smoulders on the summer crag. 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 

Ai.THo' I be the basest of mankind, 
Prom scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin, 
Unflt for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet 
For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy, 
I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold 
Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn, and sob. 
Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer. 
Have mercy. Lord, and take away my sin. 
Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God, 
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years, 
Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs. 
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold. 
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and 

cramps, 
A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud, 
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne 
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and 

snow ; 
And I had hoped that ere this period closed 
Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest. 
Denying not these weather-beaten limbs 
The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm^ 

O take the meaning. Lord: I do not breathe, 
Not whisper any murmur of complaint. 
Pain heap'd tcn-hundred-fold to this, were still 
Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear. 
Than were those lead-like tons of sin, that crush'd 
My spirit flat before thee. 

O Lord, Lord, 
Thou kuowest I bore this better at the first. 



ST. SIMEON STYLITES. 



53 



Fot 1 was strong and hale of body theu .- 
Aud tho' my teeth, which uow are dropt awaj', 
Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard 
Was tagg'd with ley fringes in the moon, 
I drowu'd the whoopiugs of the owl with sound 
Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes saw 
Au angel stand and watch me, as I sang. 
Now am I feeble grown ; my end draws nigh ; 
I hope my end draws nigh : half deaf I am. 
So that I scarce can hear the i)Cople hum 
About the coluum's base, and almost blind, 
And scarce can recognize the fields I know ; 
And both my thighs are rotted with the dew; 
Yet cease I not to clamor and to ciy, 
While my stift" spine can hold my weary head. 
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone, 
Have mercy, mercy : take away my sin. 

O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul, 
tVho may be saved ? who is it may be saved ? 
Who i«ay Oe made a saint, if I fail here? 
Show me the man hath suft'cr'd more than I. 
For did not all thy martyrs die one death? 
For either they were stoned, or crucified, 
Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or sawn 
In twain beneath the ribs ; but I die here 
To-day, and whole years long, a life of death. 
Bear witness, if I could have found a way 
(And heed fully I sifted all my thought) 
More slowly-painful to subdue this home 
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, 
I had not stinted practice, O my God. 

For not alone this pillar-punishment, 
Not this alone I bore: but while I lived 
In the white convent down the valley there, 
For many weeks about my loins I wore 
The rope that haled the buckets from the well, 
Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose ; 
Aud spake not of it to a single soul. 
Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, 
Betray'd my secret penance, so that all 
My brethren marvell'd greatly. More than this 
I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all. 

Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee, 
I lived ;ip there on yonder mountain side. 
My right leg chain'd into the crag, I lay 
Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones ; 
Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice 
Black'd with thy branding thunder, and sometimes 
Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not, 
Except the spare chance-gift of those that came 
To touch my body and be heal'd, and live : 
Aud they say then that I work'd miracles. 
Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind, 
Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, O God, 
Knowest alone whether this was or no. 
Have mercy, mercy ; cover all my sin. 

Then, that I might be more alone with thee, 
Three years I lived upon a pillar, high 
Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve ; 
And twice three years I crouch'd on one that rose 
Twenty by measure ; last of all, I grew. 
Twice ten long weary weary years to this, 
That numbers forty cubits from the soil. 

I think that I have borne as much as this — 
Or else I dream — and for so long a time, 
If I may measure time by yon slow light. 
And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns — 
So much— even so. 

And yet I know not well, 
For that the evil ones come here, and say, 
"Fall down, O Simeon: thou hast suff"er'd long 
For ages and for ages !" theu they prate 
Of penances I cannot have gone thro', 
Perplexing me with lies ; aud oft I fall. 
Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies, 
That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked. 

But yet 
Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints 



Enjoy themselves in heaven, aud men on earth 

House in the shade of comfortable roofs. 

Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food, 

And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalla 

I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light. 

Bow down one thousand and two hundred times, 

To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints; 

Or in the night, afier a little sleep, 

I wake : the chill stars sparkle ; I am wet 

With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost. 

I wear an undress'd goatskin on my back; 

A grazing iron collar grinds my neck; 

And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross. 

And strive aud wrestle with thee till I die: 

meicy, mercy 1 wash away my sin. 

O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am ; 
A sinful man, conceived and born iu sin : 
'Tis their own doing ; this is none of mine ; 
Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this, 
That here come those that worship me? Hal hat 
They think that I am somewhat. What am I ? 
The silly people take me for a saint. 
And bring me oft'erings of fruit and flowers: 
And I, iu truth (thou wilt bear witness here) 
Have all in all endured as much, and more 
Thau many just and holy men, whose names 
Are register'd and calendar'd for saints. 

Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. 
What is it I can have done to merit this ! 

1 am a sinuer viler thau you all. 

It may be I have wrought some miracles, 

Aud cured some halt and maim'd ; but what of that 5 

It may be, no one, even amoug the saints, 

May match his pains with mine; but what of that? 

Yet do not rise : for you may look ou me, 

And iu your looking you may kueel to God. 

Speak ! is there any of you halt or maim'd ? 

I think you know I have some power with Heaven 

From my long penance : let him speak his wish. 

Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me. 
They say that they are heal'd. Ah, hark ! the? 

shout 
"St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so, 
God reaps a harvest iu me. O my soul, 
God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be. 
Can I work miracles and not be saved ? 
This is not told of any. They were saints. 
It cannot be but that I shall be saved ; 
Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, " Behold a saiut !'• 
And lower voices saint me from above. 
Courage, St. Simeou ! This dull chrysalis 
Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death 
Spreads more aud more and more, that God hath now 
Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all 
My mortal archives. 

O my sons, my sous, 
I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname 
Stylites, among men ; I, Simeon, 
The watcher on the column till the end; 
I, Simeon, whose braiu the sunshine bakes; 
I, whose bald brows in silent hours become 
Unnaturally hoar witli rime, do now 
From my high nest of penance here proclaim 
That Pontius aud Iscariot by my side 
Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay, 
A vessel full of sin : all hell beueath 
Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd my sleeve ; 
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. 
I smote them with the cross ; they swarm'd agaia 
In bed like monstrous apes they crush'd my chesti 
They flapp'd my light out as I read: I saw 
Their faces grow between me and my book : 
With colt-like whinny and with hoggish whine 
They burst my prayer. Yet this way was left, 
And by this way I 'scaped them. Mortify 
Your flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns; 
Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fast 
Whole Lents, aud pray. I hardly, with slow steps, 



54 



THE TALKING OAK. 



'Twere well to question him, aud try 
If yet he keeps the power. 

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, 

Broad Oak of Suraner-chace, 
Whose topmost branches can discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place ! 

Say thou, whereon I carved her name, 

If ever maid or spouse, 
As fair as my Olivia, came 

To rest beneath thy boughs. — 

"O Walter, I have shelter'd here 

Whatever maiden grace 
The good old Summers, year by year, 

Made ripe in Sumuer-chace: 

"Old Summers, when the monk was fat, 

Aud, issuing shorn and sleek. 
Would twist his girdle tight, and pat 

The girls upon the cheek, 

" Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence, 
And unmber'd bead and shrift, 

Bluft' Harry broke into the spence. 
And turu'd the cowls adrift: 

" And I have seen some score of those 

Fresh faces that would thrive 
When his man-minded offset rose 

To chase the deer at five ; 

"Aud all that from the town would stroll. 
Till that wild wind made work 

In which the gloomy brewer's soul 
Went by me, like a stork : 

"The slight she-slips of loyal blood, 

Aud others, passing praise, 
Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud 

For puritanic stays : 

"Aud I have shadow'd many a group 

Of beauties that were born 
In teacup-times of hood and hoop. 

Or while the patch was worn ; 

"And, leg and arm with love-knots gay, 

About me leap'd and laugh'd 
The modish Cupid of the day. 

And shrill'd his tinsel shaft. 

"I swear (and else may insects prick 

Each leaf into a gall) 
This girl, for whom your heart is sick, 

Is three times worth them all; 

" For those and theirs, by Nature's law. 

Have faded long ago; 
But in these latter spriugs I saw 

Your own Olivia blow, 

" From when she gamboll'd on the greens, 

A baby-germ, to when 
The maiden blossoms of her teens 

Could number live from ten. 

" I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain, 
(Aud hear me with thine ears,) 

That, tho' I circle in the grain 
Five hundred rings of years— 

"Yet, since I first could cast a shade. 

Did never creature pass 
So slightly, musically made, 

So light upon the grass: 

" For as to fairies, that will flit 
To make the greensward fresh, 



With slow, faint steps, and much exceeding pain. 
Have scrambled past those pits of tire, that still 
Sing in miue ears. But yield not me the praise : 
God only thro' his bounty hath thought tit. 
Among the powers and princes of this world, 
To make me an example to mankind. 
Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say 
But that a time may come — yea, even now. 
Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold stairs 
Of life — I say, that time is at the doors 
When you may worship me without reproach ; 
For I will leave my relics in your laud. 
And you may carve a shrine about my dust, 
And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones. 
When I am gather' d to the glorious saints. 

While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain 
Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a cloud-like change. 
In passing, with a grosser film made thick 
These heavy, horny eyes. The end 1 the end ! 
Surely the end ! What's here ? a shape, a shade, 
A flash of light. Is that the angel there 
That holds a crown ? Come, blessed brother, come, 
I know thy glittering face. I waited long; 
My brows are ready. What! deny it now? 
Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ ! 
'Tis gone : 'tis here again : the crown ! the crown ! 
So now 'tis titled on and grows to me. 
And from it melt the dews of Paradise, 
Sweet ! sweet ! spikenard, and balm, and frankin- 
cense. 
Ah ! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints : I trust 
That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven. 

Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God, 
Among you there, aud let him presently 
Approach, aud lean a ladder on the shaft, 
Aud climbing up into my airy home. 
Deliver me the blessed sacrament ; 
For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, 
I prophesy that I shall die to-night, 
A quarter before twelve. 

But thou, O Lord, 
Aid all this foolish people; let them take 
Example, pattern: lead them to thy light. 



THE TALKING OAK. 

Once more the gate behind me falls; 

Once more before my face 
I see the mouldcr'd Abbey-walls, 

That stand within the chace. 

Beyond the lodge the city lies, 
Beneath its drift of smoke ; 

And ah ! with what delighted eyes 
I turn to yonder oak. 

For when my passion first began, 
Ere that, which in me burn'd. 

The love, that makes me thrice a man, 
Could hope itself return'd ; 

To yonder oak within the field 

I spoke without restraint. 
And with a larger faith appeal'd 

Than Papist unto Saint. 

For oft I talk'd with him apart. 
And told him of my choice. 

Until he plagiarized a heart. 
And answer'd with a voice. 

Tho' what he whisper'd, under Heaven 
None else could understand; 

I found him garrulously given, 
A babbler in the land. 

But since I heard him make reply 
Is many a weary hour ; 



THE TALKING OAK. 



1 hold them exquisitely kuit. 
But I'ar too spare of flesh." 

O, hide thy knotted knees in fern, 

And overlook the chace ; 
And from thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place. 

But thou, whereon I carved her name, 

That oft hast heard my vows, 
Declare when last Olivia came 

To sport beneath thy boughs. 

" O yesterday, you know, the fair 

Was holrteu at the town : 
Her father left his good arm-chair, 

And rode his hunter down. 

" And with him Albert came on his, 

I look'd at him with joy : 
As cowslip unto oxlip is, 

So seems she to the boy. 

"An hour had past — and, sitting straight 
Within the lovv-wheel'd chaise, 

Her mother trundled to the gate 
Behind the dappled grays. 

"But, as for her, she stay'd at home. 

And on the roof she went, 
And down the way you use to come 

She look'd with discontent. 

"She left the novel half-uncut 

Upon the rosewood shelf-. 
She left the new piano shut : 

She could not please herself. 

" Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, 

And livelier than a lark 
She sent her voice thro' all the holt 

Before her, and the park. 

" A light wind chased her on the wing. 

And in the chase grew wild. 
As close as might be would he cling 

About the darling child : 

" But light as any wind that blows 

So fleetly did she stir. 
The flower, she touch'd on, dipt and rose. 

And turu'd to look at her. 

"And here she came, and round me play'd, 

And sang to me the whole 
Of those three stanzas that you made 

About my ' giant bole ;' 

"And in a flit of frolic mirth 

She strove to span my waist ; 
Alas, I was so broad of girth, 

I could not be embraced. 

"I wish'd myself the fair young beech 

That here beside me stands. 
That round me, clasping each in each, 

She might have lock'd her hands. 

"Yet seem'd the pressure thrice as sweet 

As woodbine's fragile hold, 
Or when I feel about my feet 

The berried briony fold." 

O muffle round thy knees with fern. 

And shadow Sumner-chace ! 
Long may thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place I 



But lell me, did she read the name 

I carved with many vows 
When last with throbbing heart I came 

To rest beneath thy boughs ? 

"O yes, she wander'd round and round 

These knotted knees of mine, 
And found, and kiss'd the name she found, 

And sweetly murmur'd thine. 

"A teardrop trembled from its source, 

And down my surface crept. 
My sense of touch is something coarse, 

But I believe she wept. 

"Then flush'd her cheek with rosy light, 

She glanced across the plain ; 
But not a creature was in sight; 

She kiss'd me once again. 

" Her kisses were so close and kind. 

That, trust me on my word. 
Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, 

But yet my sap was stirr'd: 

"And even into my inmost ring 

A pleasure I discern'd, 
Like those blind motions of the Spring, 

That show the year is turn'd. 

" Thrice-happy he that may caress 

The ringlet's waving balm — 
The cushions of whose touch may press 

The maiden's tender palm. 

"I, rooted here among the groves, 

But languidly adjust 
My vapid vegetable loves 

With anthers and with dust : 

" For ah ! my friend, the days were brief 

Whereof the poets talk, 
When that, which breathes within the leaf, 

Could slip its bark and walk. 

"But could I, as in times foregone, 
From spray, and branch, and stem. 

Have suck'd and gather'd into one 
The life that spreads in them, 

"She had not found me so remiss; 

But lightly issuing thro', 
I would have paid her kiss for kiss 

With usury thereto." 

O flourish high, with leafy towers. 

And overlook the lea, 
Pursue thy loves among the bowers, 

But leave thou mine to me. 

O flourish, hidden deep in fern. 

Old oak, I love thee well ; 
A thousand thanks for what I learn 

And what remains to tell. 

" 'T is little more ; the day was warm ; 

At last, tired out with play, 
She sank her head upon her arm. 

And at my feet she lay. 

"Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eave& 

I breathed upon her eyes 
Thro' all the summer of my leaves 

A welcome mix'd with sighs. 

" I took the swarming sound of life— 
The music from the town— 



56 



LOVE AND DUTY. 



The murmurs of the drum and tit'e, 
And lull'd them iu my owu. 

" Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, 

To light her shaded eye ; 
A second flutter'd round her lip 

Like a golden butterfly ; 

"' A third would glimmer on her neck 

To make the necklace shine ; 
Another slid, a sunny fleck. 

From head to ankle flue. 

"Then close and dark my aims I spread, 

Aud shadow'd all lier rest — 
Dropt dews upon her golden head, 

An acorn in her breast. 

" But in a pet she started up, 
And pluck'd it out, and drew 

My little oakling from the cup, 
Aud flung him iu the dew. 

"And yet it was a graceful gift — 

I felt a pang within 
As when I see the woodman lift 

His axe to slay my kin. 

"I shook him down because he was 

The finest on the tree. 
He lies beside thee on the grass. 

O kiss him once for me. 

"O kiss him twice and thrice for me, 

That have no lips to kiss, 
For never yet was oak on lea 

Shall grow so fair as this." 

Step deeper yot in herb and fern, 

Look fnrlher thro' the chace, 
Spread upward till thy boughs discern 

The front of Sumner-place. 

This fruit of thine by Love is blest. 

That but a moment lay 
Where fairer fruit of Love may rest 

Some happy future day. 

I kiss it twice, T kiss it thrice. 
The warmth it thence shall win 

To riper life may magnetize 
The baby-oak within. 

But thou, while kingdoms overset 

Or lapse from hand to hand, 
Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet 

Thine acorn in the land. 

May never saw dismember thee, 

Nor wielded axe disjoint, 
That art the fairest-spoken tree 

From here to Lizard-point. 

O rock upon thy towery top 
All throats that gnrgle sweet I 

All starry culmination drop 
Balm-dews to bathe thy feet 1 

All grass of silky feather grow — 
And while he sinks or swells 

The full south-breeze around thee blow 
The sound of minster bells. 

The fat earth feed thy branchy root, 

That under deeply strikes 1 
The northern morning o'er thee ehoot, 

High up, iu silver spikas ' 



Nor ever lightning char thy grain, 

But, rolliug as iu sleep, 
Low thunders bring the mellow rain, 

That makes thee broad and deep ! 

And hear me swear a solemn oath, 

That only by thy side 
Will I to Olive plight my troth, 

Aud gain her for my bride. 

And when my marriage morn may fall. 

She, Dryad-like, shall wear 
Alternate leaf and acorn-ball 

In wreath about her hair. 

And I will work in prose and rhyme, 
And praise thee more in both 

Than bard has honor'd beech or lime, 
Or that Thessalian growth. 

In which the swarthy ringdoves sat, 
And mystic sentence spoke ; 

Aud more than England honors that, 
Thy famous brother-oak. 

Wherein the ytmnger Charles abode 
Till all the paths were dim, 

Aud far below the Roundhead rode, 
Aud humm'd a surly hymn. 



LOVE AND DUTY. 

Of love that never ftnrnd his earthly close, 

What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking heart.?' 

Or all the same as if he had not beeu ? 

Not so. Shall Error in the round of time 
Still father Truth ? O shall the braggart shout 
For some blind glimpse of freedom work itself 
Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to law 
System and empire? Sin itself be found 
The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun? 
And only he, this wonder, dead, become 
Mere highway dust ! or year by year alone 
Sit brooding in the ruins of a life. 
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself? 

If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all. 
Better the narrow brain, the stony heart. 
The staring eye glazed o'er with saples.s days, 
The long mechanic pacings to and fro. 
The set gray life, and apathetic end. 
But am I not the nobler thro' thy love? 
O three times less unworthy ! likewise thou 
Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy years. 
The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon 
Iler circle. W^ait, and Love himself will bring 
The drooping flower of knowledge changed to frul. 
Of wisdom. Wait: my faith is large in Time, 
And that which shapes it to some perfect end. 

Will some one say, then why not ill for good 
Why took ye not your pastime ? To that man 
My work shall answer, since I Icnew the right 
And did it : for a man is not as God, 
But then most Godlike being most a man. 

—So let me think 't is well for thee and me— 
Ill-fated that T am, what lot is mine 
Whose foresight pieaches peace, my heart so slow 
To feel it '. For how hard it seem'd to me. 
When eyes, love-languid thro' half-tears, would dwel 
One earnest, earnest moment upon mine. 
Then not to dare to see ! when thy low voice, 
Paltering, would break its syllables, to keep 
My own full-tnned, — hold passion iu a leash, 
And not leap forth and fall about thy neck. 
And on thy bosom, (deep-desired relief!) 
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh'd 
Upon my brain, my senses, and my soul I 



THE GOLDEN YEAR.— ULYSSES. 



For Love himself took part agaiust himself 
To warn us off, aud Duty loved of Love — 
O this world's curse, — beloved but hated — came 
Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace aud miue, 
Aud crying', Who is this ? behold thy bride," 
She push'd me from thee. 

If the seuse is hard 
To alieu ears, I did uot speak to these— 
No, uot to thee, but to uiy!>elf iu thee : 
Hard is my doom aud thiue : thou kuowest it all. 

Could Love part thus ? was it not well to speak, 
To have spoken ouce? It could uot but be well. 
The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good. 
The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill, 
Aud all good things from evil, brought the uight 
In which we sat together aud alone. 
And to the want, that hollow'd all the heart, 
Save utterance by the yearning of an eye. 
That burn'd upnu its object thro' such tears 
As flow but ouce a life. 

The trance gave way 
To those caresses, when a hundred times 
In that last kiss, which never was the last. 
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died. 
Then follow'd counsel, comfort, and the words 
That make a man feel strong in .speaking truth ; 
Till now the dark was worn, and overhead 
The lights of sunset aud of sunrise mix'd 
In that brief night ; the summer night, that paused 
Among her stars to hear us ; stars that hung 
Love-charm'd to listen : all the wheels of Time 
Spun round in station, but the end had come. 

O then like those, who clench their nerves to rush 
Upon their dissolution, we two rose. 
There — closing like an individual life — 
In one blind cry of passion and of pain, 
Like bitter accusation ev'n to death. 
Caught up the whole of love and utter'd it, 
Aud bade adieu forever. 

Live— yet live — 
Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all 
Life needs for life is possible to will — 
Live happy; tend thy flowers; be tended by 
My blessing! Should my Shadow cross thy thoughts 
Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou 
For calmer hours to Memory's darkest hold, 
If not to be forgotten — not at once — 
Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy dreams, 
O might it come like one that looks content, 
With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth. 
And point thee forward to a distant light. 
Or seem to lift a burthen from thy heart 
Aud leave thee freer, till thou wake refresh'd, 
Then when the low matiu-chirp hath grown 
Pull choir, and morning driv'n her plough of pearl 
Far furrowing into light the mounded rack. 
Beyond the fair green field aud eastern sea. 



•THE GOLDEN YEAR. 

Well, you shall have that song which Leonard 

wrote : 
It ivas last summer on a tour in Wales : 
Old James was with me : we that day had been 
Up Snowdon ; and I wish'd for Leonard there, 
And found him in Llamberis: then we crost 
Between the lakes, and clamber'd half way up 
The counter side ; and that same song of his 
He told me ; for I banter'd him, and swore 
They said he lived shut up within himself, 
A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days, 
That, setting the kmo much before the hoiv, 
Cry, like the daughters of the horse-leech, "Give, 
Cram us with all," but count not me the herd ! 

To which "They call me what they will," he said: 
" But I was born too late : the fair new forms. 



That float about the threshold of au age, 

Like truths of Science waiting to be caught — 

Catch me who can, and make the catcher crown'd— 

Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. 

But if you care iudeed to listeu, hear 

These measured words, my work of yestermorn. 

" We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things 
move : 
The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun ; 
The dark Earth follows wheel'd iu her ellipse ; 
And human things returning on themselves 
Move onward, leading up the golden year. 

"Ah, tho' the times, when some new thought can 
bud, 
Are but as poets' seasons when they flower. 
Yet seas, that daily gain upon the shore. 
Have ebb aud flow conditioning their march, 
Aud slow and sure comes up the golden year. 

" When wealth no more shall rest in mounded 
heaps. 
But smit with freer light shall slowly melt 
In many streams to ftitten lower lands. 
And light shall spread, and man be liker man 
Thro' all the season of the golden year. 

"Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be wiens? 
If all the world were falcons, what of thai? 
The wonder of the eagle were the less. 
But he not less the eagle. Happy days 
Roll onward, leading up the golden year. 

"Fly, happy happy sails and bear the Press; 
Fly, happy with the mission of the Cross; 
Knit land to land, and blowing havenward 
With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll, 
Enrich the markets of the golden year. 

" But we grow old. Ah ! when shall all men's 
good 
Be each man's rule, and universal Peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land, 
And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, 
Thro' all the circle of the golden year?" 

Thus far he flowed, and ended ; whereupon 
"Ah, folly!" in mimic cadence answer'd James — 
"Ah, folly ! for it lies so far away. 
Not in our time, nor in our children's time, 
'T is like the second world to us that live ; 
'T were all as one to fix our hopes on Heaven 
As on this vision of the golden year." 

With that he struck his staff" against the rocks 
And broke it, — James,— you know him, — old, but ful! 
Of force and choler, and firm upon his feet. 
And like an oaken stock iu winter woods, 
O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis : 
Then added, all in heat : 

"What stuff" is this! 
Old writers push'd the happy season back, — 
The more fools they, — we forward: dreamers both: 
You most, that in an age, when every hour 
Must sweat her sixty minutes to the death, 
Live on, God love us, as if the seedsman, rapt 
Upon the teeming harvest, should not dip 
His hand into the bag: but well I know 
That unto him who works, and feels he works. 
This same grand year is ever at the doors." 

He spoke ; and, high above, I heard them blast 
The steep slate-quarry, and the great echo flap 
And buff'et round the hills from bluff to bluff". 



ULYSSES. 

It little profits that an idle king, 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race, 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me, 

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink 

Life to the lees : all times I have eujoy'd 



58 



ULYSSES 



Greatly, have snflfer'd greatly, both with those 

That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when 

Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 

Vest the dim sea: I am become a name; 

For always roaming with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known ; cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments, 

Myself not least, but honor'd of them all : 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers. 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met ; 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 

Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades 

Forever and forever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use I 

As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains : but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things ; and vi\e it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myselli 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge, like a sinking star. 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to ftUfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 



In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 
There lies the port : the vessel puffs her sail : 
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners. 
Souls that have toD'd, and wrought, and thought 

with me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — yon and I are old ; 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; 
Death closes all : but something ere the end. 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: 
The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the 

deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 
"T is not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows : for my pnrpo.'e holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us downs 
It may be we shall tonch the Happy Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
Tho' much is taken, much abides : and tho' 
We are not now that strength which in old days 
Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, wg 

are: 
One equal temper of heroic hearts. 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 




*' There lies the port : the resael puffs her sail ; 
There gloom the diirk broad seas." 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 59 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 

CoMBADES, leave me here a Utile, while as yet 't is eariy morn : 
Leave me here, aud wheu you want me, souud upon the bugle norn, 

'T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, 
Dreary gleams about the moorlaud flying over Locksley Hall; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, 
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest. 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade, 
Glitter like a swarm of flre-flies tangled in a silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime 
With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time ; 

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed; 
When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed: 

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could f-ee ; 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.— 

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robiu's breast; 
In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest ; 

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove ; 

In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young. 
And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. 

And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, aud speak the truth to me, 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light. 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. 

And she turn'd— her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs — 
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes- 
Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wi-ong ;" 
Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, "I have loved thee lon^" 

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands ; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might! 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music oat of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring. 
And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring; 

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, 
And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. 

O my cousin, shailow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine n.> more ! 
O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, barren shore ! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all son-jrs have sung. 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongufc! 

Is it well to wish thee happy ?— havin? known me— to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heaf t than mine I 



60 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 



ffi^A^'t' 




** Many an evening: by the waters did we watch the stately ships. 
And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips," 



Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day, 

What is flue withiu thee growiug coarse to sympathize with clay. 

As the husbaud is, the wife is : thou art mated with a clown, 

Aud the grossuess of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force. 
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. 

What is this? his eyes are heavy: think not they are glazed with win?. 
Go to him: it is thy duty: kiss him: take his haud in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought ; 

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my haud ! 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, 
Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth i 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule ! 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool ! 

■Well— 'tis well that I should bluster !—Hadst thou less unworthy proved- 
Would to God — for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that T should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? 
I will plnck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come 
As the many-wiftter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. «1 



Where is comfort? in division of tiie records of the miud? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind ? 

I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she speak and move : 
Such d one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bort? 
No— she never loved me tniiy: love is love forevermore. 

Comfort? comfort scoru'd of devils ! this is truth the poet sings, 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, 
In the dead unhappy night, when the rain is on the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall. 
Where the' dying night-lamp flickers, and tlie shadows rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, 
To thy widow'd marriage pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. 

Thou Shalt hear the "Never, never," whisper'd by the phantom yearb, 
And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears ; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow: get thee to thy rest again. 

Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will cry. 
'Tis a purer life than thine; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee rest. 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. 

O, the child too clothes the fiither with a dearness not his due. 
Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the two. 

O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part. 

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. 

"They were dangerous guides the feelings — she herself was not exempt- 
Truly, she herself had suffer'd " — Perish in thy self-contempt ! 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy! wherefore should I care? 
I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these? 
Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. 

Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. 
I have but an angry fancy : what is that which I should do ? 

I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, 

When the ranks are roll'd in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound* 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels, 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness ? I will turn that earlier page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age ! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, 
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life , 

Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield. 
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field. 

And at night along the dusky highway, near and nearer drawn. 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men ; 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new: 

That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall floi 

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, 

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; 



62 LOCKSLEY HALL. 



Saw the heaveus fill with commerc», argosies of magic sails, 
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; 

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there raiu'd a ghastly dew 
From the uatious' airy uavies grappling iu the central blue ; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm. 
With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thuuder-storui ; 

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furlY 
la the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. 

There the common sense of most shall hold a fi-etful realm in awe, 
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. 

So I triumph'd, ere ray passion sweeping thro' me left me dry, 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye ; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint, 
Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point : 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher. 
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying flre. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs, 

And the thoughts of men are wideu'd with the process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, 
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat forever like a boy's ? 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, 
And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast. 
Full of sad experienj:e, moving toward the stillness of his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn. 
They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn : 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? 
I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's pleasure, woman's paiE-. 
Nature made them blinder motions bounded iu a shallower brain : 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine. 
Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine— 

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat 
Ceep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat ; 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd ;— 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit— there to wander far away, 
On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies. 
Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. 

Kever comes the trader, never floats an European flag. 

Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag; 

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree- 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. 

There methiuks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, 
In the steamship, in the railway, m the thoughts that shake mankind. 

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing-spacc ! 
I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall ran, 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun ; 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, 
Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books— 



GODIVA. 



G3 



1*001, ajjaiu the dream, the fancy ! but I know my words are wild. 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. 

/, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains. 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains ! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or clime ? 
1 the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time — 

I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, 

Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon r 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range. 
Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of changf. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day: 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 

Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun: 

Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun- 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow; 
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. 



GODIVA. 

/ waited for the train at Coventry; 
I hung toith c/rooms and porters on the bridge, 
To watch the three tall Kjnres; and there I shaped 
The cttj/'s a7icient legend into this: ' 



Not only we, the latest seed of Time, 
New men, that in the flying of a wheel 
Cry down the past, not only we, that prate 
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people wc. 
And loathed to see them overtax'd : but she 
Did more, and underwent, and overcame, 




** Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there 
UocUap'd the wedded eagles of her belt." 



64 



THE TWO VOICES. 



The woman of a thonsand summers back, 

Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled 

In Coventry: for wheu he laid a tax 

Upon his town, and all the mothers brought 

Their children, clamoring, "If we pay, we starve !" 

She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode 

About the hall, among his dogs, alone. 

His beard a foot before him, and his hair 

A yard behind. She told him of their tears, 

And pray'd him, " If they pay this tax, they starve." 

Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed, 

" You would not let your little finger ache 

For such as these?"— "Bnt I would die," said she. 

He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by Paul : 

Then fillip'd at the diamond in her ear; 

" O ay, ay, ay, you talk 1" — " Alas '." she said, 

" But prove me what it is I would not do." 

And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand. 

He auswer'd, " Ride you naked thro' the town, 

And I repeal it ;" and nodding, as in scorn, 

He parted, with great strides among his dogs. 

So left alone, the passions of her mind. 
As winds from all the compass shift and blow, 
Made war upon each other for an hour, 
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth, 
And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all 
The hard condition ; but that she would loose 
The people : therefore, as they loved her well. 
From then till noon no foot should pace the street. 
No eye look dowp, she passing: but that all 
Should keep within, door shut, and window barr'd. 

Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there 
tJnclasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt. 
The grim Earl's gift; but ever at a breath 
She linger'd, looking like a summer moon 
Half-dipt in cloud : anon she shook her head. 
And shower'd the rippled ringlets to her knee ; 
Unclad herself in haste ; adown the stair 
Stole on ; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid 
From pillar unto pillar, until she reach'd 
The gateway ; there she found her palfrey trapt 
In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. 

Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity: 
The deep air listen'd round her as she rode, 
And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. 
The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the spout 
Had cunning eyes to see : the barking cur 
Made her cheek flame : her palfrey's footfall shot 
Light horrors thro' her pulses : the blind walls 
Were full of chinks and holes ; and overhead 
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : but she 
Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw 
The white-flower'd elder-thicket from the field 
Gleam thro' the Gothic archways in the wall. 

Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity : 
And one low churl, compact of thankless earth, 
The fatal byword of all years to come, 
Boring a little auger-hole in fear, 
Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had their will. 
Were shrivell'd into darkness in his head. 
And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait 
On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense misused ; 
And she, that knew not, pass'd : and all at once. 
With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless 

noon 
Was clash'd and haramer'd from a hundred towers. 
One after one: but even then she gain'd 
Her bower ; whence reissuing, robed and crown'd. 
To meet her lord, she took the tax away, 
And built herself an everlasting name. 



THE TWO VOICES. 

A BTii.i. small voice spake unto me, 
" Thou art so full of misery. 
Were it not better not to be ?'' 



Then to the still small voice I said: 
"Let me not cast in endless shade 
What is so wonderfully made." 

To which the voice did urge reply: 

"To-day I saw the dragon-fly 

Come from the wells where he did lie. 

"An inner impulse rent the veil 
Of his old husk : from head to tail 
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. 

"He dried his wings: lifee gauze they grew: 
Th'-o' crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light he flew." 

I said, " When first the world began, 
Young Nature thro' five cycles ran, 
And in the sixth she moulded man. 

" She gave him mind, the lordliest 
Proportion, and, above the rest, 
Dominion in the head and breast." 

Thereto the silent voice replied : 
"Self-blinded are you by your pride i 
Look up thro' night: the world is wid»»= 

"This truth within thy mind rehearse, 

That in a boundless universe 

Is boundless better, boundless worse. 

"Think you this mould of hopes and fesr* 
Could find no statelier than his peers 
In yonder hundred million spheres ?" 

It spake, moreover, in my mind : 
"Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind. 
Yet is there plenty of the kind." 

Then did my response clearer fall : 
" No compound of this earthly ball 
Is like another, all in all." 

To which he answer'd scofliugly : 
"Good soul! suppose I grant it thee, 
Who '11 weep for thy deficiency ? 

" Or will one beam be less intense, 

Wheu thy peculiar difl'ereuce 

Is cancell'd in the world of sense ?" 

I would have said, " Thou canst not know '' 
But my full heart, that work'd below, 
Raiu'd thro' my sight its overflow. 

Again the voice spake unto me : 
" Thou art so steep'd in misery, 
Surely, 't were better not to be. 

" Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, 

Nor any train of reason keep: 

Thon canst not think but thou wilt weep. 

I said, " The years with ch.ange advance : 
If I make dark my countenance, 
I shut my life from happier clxance. 

" Some turn this sickness yet might take. 
Ev'n yet." But he : "What drug can ranks 
A wither'd palsy cease to shake ?" 

I wept, " Tho' I should die, I know 
That all about the thorn will blow 
In tufts of rosy-tinted snow; 

"And men, thro' novel spheres of thouerht 
Still moving after truth long sought. 
Will learn new things when 1 am not." 



THE TWO VOICES. 



65 



"Yet," said the secret voice, "some time 
Soouer or later, will gray prime 
Make thy grass hoar with early rime. 

"Not less swift souls that yearn for light, 

Rapt after heaven's starry flight, 

Would sweep the tracts of day and night. 

"Not less the bee would range her cells, 
The furzy prickle Are the dells, 
The foxglove cluster dappled bells." 

I said that " all the years invent • 
Each month is various to present 
The world with some development. 

"Were this not well, to bide mine hour, 
Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower 
How grows the day of human power ?" 

"The highest-mounted mind," he said, 
" Still sees the sacred morning spread 
The silent summit overhead. 

"Will thirty seasons render plain 
Those lonely lights that still remain, 
Just breaking over land and main? 

"Or make that morn, from his cold crown 
And crystal silence creeping down. 
Flood with full daylight glebe and town ? 

" Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let 

Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set 

In midst of knowledge, dream'd not yet. 

"Thou hast not gained a real height, 
Nor art thou nearer to the light, 
Because the scale is infinite. 

" 'T were better not to breathe or speak, 
Than cry for strength, remaining weak. 
And seem to find, but still to seek. 

"Moreover, but to seem to find 

Asks what thou lackest, thought resign'd, 

A healthy frame, a quiet mind." 

I said, "When I am gone away, 
'He dared not tarry,' men will say. 
Doing dishonor to my clay." 

"This is more vile," he made reply, 
"To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh, 
Thau once from dread of pain to die. 

" Sick art thou— a divided will 
Still heaping on the fear of ill 
The fear of men, a coward still. 

" Do men love thee? Art thou so bound 
To men, that how thy name may sound 
Will vex thee lying underground ? 

" The memory of the wither'd leaf 
In endless time is scarce more brief 
Than of the garuer'd Autumn-sheaf. 

" Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust ; 
The right ear, that is fill'd with dust, 
Hears little of the false or just." 

" Hard task, to pluck resolve," I cried, 
" Prom emptiness and the waste wide 
Of that abyss, or scornful pride ! 

"Nay — rather yet that I could raise 
One hope that warm'd me in the days 
While still I yearn'd for human praise. 



" When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, 
Among the tents I paused and sung. 
The distant battle flash'd and rung. 

" I sung the joyful Paean clear, 
And, sitting, burnish'd without fear 
The brand, the buckler, and the spear — 

" Waiting to strive a happy strife, 
To war with falseliood to the knife, 
And not to lose the good of life— 

" Some hidden principle to move, 

To put together, part and prove. 

And mete the bounds of hate and love — 

" As far as might be, to carve out 
Free space for every human doubt, 
That the whole mind might orb about— 

"To search thro' all I felt or saw. 
The springs of life, the depths of awe, 
And reach the law within the law: 

" At least, not rotting like a weed. 
But, having sown some generous seed, 
Fruitful of further thought and deed, 

"To pass, when Life her light withdraws. 
Not void of righteous self-applause. 
Nor in a merely selfish cause— 

"In some good cause, not in mine own, 
To perish, wept for, honor'd, known, 
And like a warrior overthrown ; 

" Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears, 
When, soil'd with noble dust, he hears 
His country's war-song thrill his ears: 

"Then dying of a mortal stroke. 
What time the foeman's line is broke, 
And all the war is roll'd in smoke." 

"Yea!" said the voice, "thy dream was good. 
While thou abodest in the bud. 
It was the stirring of the blood. 

" If Nature put not forth her power 
About the opening of the flower. 
Who is it that could live an hour? 

"Then comes the check, the change, the fall. 
Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. 
There is one remedy for all. 

"Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, 
Link'd month to month with such a chain 
Of knitted purport, all were vain. 

"Thou hadst not between death and birth 
Dissolved the riddle of the earth. 
So were thy labor little-worth. 

" That men with knowledge merely play'd, 

I told thee — hardly nigher made, 

Tho' scaling slow from grade to grade; 

"Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind. 
Named man, may hope some truth to find. 
That bears relation to the mind. 

"For every worm beneath the moon 
Draws difi'erent threads, and late and sooe 
Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. 

" Cry, faint not : either Trath is born 
Beyond the polar gleam forlorn. 
Or in the gateways of the morn. 



66 



THE TWO VOICES. 



"Cry, faint not, climb: the summits slope 
Beyond the furthest flights of hope, 
Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope. 

" Sometimes a little corner shines. 

As over rainy mist inclines 

A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 

"I will go forward, sayest thou, 
I shall not fail to find her now. 
Look up, the fold is on her brow. 

" If straight thy tract, or if oblique. 

Thou know'st not. Shadows thou dost strike. 

Embracing cloud, Ixion-like ; 

'•And owning but a little more 
Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, 
Calling thyself a little lower 

" Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl ! 
Why inch by inch to darkness crawl ? 
There is one remedy for all." 

"O dull, one-sided voice," said I, 
"Wilt thou make everything a lie. 
To flatter me that I may die ? 

" I know that age to age succeeds, 
Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, 
A dust of systems and of creeds. 

•'I cannot hide that some have striven. 
Achieving calm, to whom was given 
The joy that mixes man with Heaven : 

"Who, rowing hard against the stream. 
Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, 
And did not dream it was a dream ; 

" But heard, by secret transport led, 
Ev'n in the charnels of the dead, 
The murmur of the fountain-head — 

" Which did accomplish their desire, 
Bore and forbore, and did not tire, 
Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 

" He heeded not reviling tones, 

Nor sold his heart to idle moans, 

Tho' curs'd and scorn'd, and bruised with stones : 

" But looking upward, full of grace. 
He pray'd, and from a happy place 
God's glory smote him on the face." 

The sullen answer slid betwixt: 

" Not that the grounds of hope were flx'd. 

The elements were kindlier mix'd." 

I said, " I toil beneath the curse, 
But, knowing not the universe, 
I fear to slide from bad to worse. 

" And that, in seeking to undo 
One riddle, and to find the true, 
I knit a hundred others new : 

" Or that this anguish fleeting hence, 
Unmanacled from bonds of sense. 
Be flx'd and froz'n to permanence: 

"For I go, weak from suffering here ; 
Naked I go, and void of cheer : 
What is it that I may not fear ?" 

" Consider well," the voice replied, 

" His face, that two hours since hath died ; 

Wilt thou find passion, pain, or pride? 



"Will he obey when one commands? 
Or answer should one press his hands ? 
He answers not, nor understands. 

"His palms are folded on his breast: 
There is no other thing express'd 
But long disquiet merged in rest. 

"His lips are very mild and meek: 
Tho' one should smile him on the cheek. 
And on the mouth, he will not speak. 

"His little daughter, whose sweet face 
He kiss'd, taking his last embrace. 
Becomes dishonor to her race— 

"His sons grow up that bear his name. 
Some grow to honor, some to shame, — 
But he is chill to praise or blame. 

" He will not hear the north-wind rave. 
Nor, moaning, household shelter crave 
From winter rains that beat his grave. 

"High up the vapors fold and swim: 
About him broods the twilight dim: 
The place he knew forgetteth him." 

"If all be dark, vague voice," I said, 

" These things are wrapt in doubt and drea>]. 

Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. 

" The sap dries up : the plant declines. 

A deeper tale my heart divines. 

Know I not Death ? the outward signs ? 

"I found him when my years were few; 
A shadow on the graves I knew, 
And darkness in the village yew. 

"From grave to grave the shadow crept: 
In her still place the morning wept: 
Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. 

"The simple senses crowu'd his head: 
'Omega! thou art Lord,' they said, 
'We find no motion in the dead.' 

" Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, 
Should that plain fact, as taught by these, 
Not make him sure that he shall cease ? 

"Who forged that other influence, 

That heat of inward evidence. 

By which he doubts against the sense ? 

" He owns the fatal gift of eyes. 
That read his spirit blindly wise. 
Not simple as a thing that dies. 

"Here sits he shaping wings to fly: 
His heart forebodes a mystery: 
He names the name. Eternity. 

"That type of Perfect in his mind 
In Nature can he nowhere find. 
He sows himself on every wind. 

"He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, 
And thro' thick veils to apprehend 
A labor working to an end. 

"The end and the beginning vex 
His reason : many things perplex. 
With motions, checks, and counter-checks. 

" He knows a baseness in his blood 

At such strange war with something good, 

He may not do the thing he would. 



THE TWO VOICES. 



(J7 



"Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, 
Vast images in glimmering dawn, 
Half-sliown, are broken and withdrawn. 

" Ah ! sure within him and without, 
Could his dark wisdom find it out, 
There must be answer to his doubt. 

" But thou canst answer not again. 
With thine ovvn weapon art thou slain, 
Or thou wilt answer but in vaiu. 

" The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. 
Ib the same circle we revolve. 
Assurance only breeds resolve." 

As when a billow, blown against. 

Palls back, the voice with which I fenced 

A little ceased, but recommenced : 

"Where vcert thou when thy father play'd 
In his free field, and pastime made, 
A merry boy in sun and shade ? 

"A merry boy they called him then. 
He sat upon the knees of men 
In days that never come again. 

"Before the little ducts began 

To feed thy bones with lime, and ran 

Their course, till thou wert also man : 

" Who took a wife, who rear'd his race, 
Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face, 
Whose troubles number with his days: 

"A life of nothings, nothing-worth. 
From that first nothing ere his birth 
To that last nothing under earth !" 

"These words," I said, "are like the rest, 
No certain clearness, but at best 
A vague suspicion of the breast : 

"But if I grant, thou might'st defend 
The thesis which thy words intend — 
That to begin implies to end; 

"Yet how should I for certain hold, 
Because my memory Is so cold. 
That I first was in human mould ? 

" I cannot make this matter plain. 
But I would shoot, howe'er iu vaiu, 
A random arrow from the brain. 

"It may be that no life is found, 
Which only to one engine bound 
Falls off, but cycles always round. 

"As old mythologies relate. 

Some draught of Lethe might await 

The slipping thro' from state to state. 

" As here we find in trances, men 
Forget the dream that happens then, 
Until they fall in trance again. 

" So might we, if our state were such 

As one before, remember much, 

For those two likes might meet and touch. 

" But, if I lapsed from nobler place. 
Some legend of a fallen race 
Alone might hint of my disgrace ; 

" Some vague emotion of delight 

In gazing up an Alpine height, 

Some yearning toward the lamps of night. 

" Or if thro' lower lives I came — 
Tho' all experience past became 
Consolidate iu mind and frame — 



"I might forget my weaker lot; 
For is not our first year forgot? 
The haunts of memory echo not. 

" And men, whose reason long was blind. 
From cells of madness unconfined. 
Oft lose whole years of darker mind. 

"Much more, if first I floated free. 
As naked essence, must I be 
Incompetent of memory : 

"For memory dealing but with time, 
And he with matter, could she climb 
Beyond her own material prime ? 

"Moreover, something is or seems. 
That touches me with mystic gleams. 
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — 

"Of something felt, like something her». 
Of something done, I know not where ; 
Such as no language may declare.' 

The still voice laugh'd. "I talk," said he, 
" Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee 
Thy pain is a reality." 

"But thou," said I, "hast miss'd thy mark, 
Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, 
By making all the horizon dark. 

"Why not set forth, if I should do 
This rashness, that which might ensue 
With this old soul iu organs new ? 

" Whatever crazy sorrow saith, 

No life that breathes with human breath 

Has ever truly long'd for death. 

"'T is life, whereof our nerves are scant. 

life, not death, for which we pant; 
More life, and fuller, that I want." 

1 ceased, and sat as one forlorn. 
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn : 
" Behold, it is the Sabbath morn." 

And I arose, and I released 

The casement, and the light increased 

With freshness in the dawning east. 

Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, 
When meres begin to uncongeal. 
The sweet church bells began to peal. 

On to God's house the people prest : 
Passing the place where each must rest 
Each enter'd like a welcome guest. 

One walk'd between his wife and child. 
With measur'd footfall firm and mild. 
And now and then he gravely smiled. 

The prudent partner of his blood 
Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good, 
Wearing the rose of womanhood. 

And in their double love secure. 
The little maiden walk'd demure. 
Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 

These three made unity so sweet, 
My frozen heart began to beat, 
Remembering its ancient heat. 

I blest them, and they wander'd on; 
I spoke, but answer came there none: 
The dull and bitter voice was gone. 

A second voice was at mine ear, 

A little whisper silver-clear, 

A murmur, "Be of better cheer." 



68 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



As from some blissful neighborhood, 

A notice faintly understood, 

"i see the end, and know the good." 

A little hint to solace woe, 

A hint, a whisper breathing low, 

"I may not speak of what I know." 

Like an ^olian harp that wakes 

No certain air, but overtakes 

Far thought with music that it makes. 

Such seem'd the whisper at my side : 

"What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?" I cried. 

"A bidden hope," the voice replied: 

So heavenly-toned, that in that hour 
Prom out my sullen heart a power 
Broke, like the rainbow from the shower, 

To feel, altho' no tongue can prove, 
That every cloud, that spreads above 
And veileth love, itself is love. 

And forth into the fields I went, 
And Nature's living motion lent 
The pulse of hope to discontent. 

I wonder'd at the bounteous hours. 
The slow result of winter-showers: 
You scarce could see the grass for flowers. 

I wonder'd, while 1 paced along : 

The woods were flll'd so full with song. 

There seem'd no room for sense of wrong. 

So variously seem'd all things wrought, 
I marvell'd how the mind was brought 
To anchor by one gloomy thought; 

And wherefore rather I made choice 
To commune with that barren voice. 
Than him that said, "Rejoice! rejoice!" 



THE DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGDE. 

O Lyu>Y Flora, let me speak : 

A pleasant hour has past away 
While, dreaming on your damask cheek. 

The dewy sister-eyelids lay. 
As by the lattice you reclined, 

I went thro' many wayward moods 
To see you dreaming — and, behind, 

A summer crisp with shining woods. 
And I too dream'd, until at last 

Across my fancy, brooding warm, 
The reflex of a legend past. 

And loosely settled into form. 
And would you have the thought I had. 

And see the vision that I saw, 
Then take the broidery-frame, and add 

A crimson to the quaint Macaw, 
And I will tell it. Turn your face. 

Nor look with that too-earnest eye — 
The rhymes are dazzled from their place, 

And order'd words asunder fly. 

THE SLEEPING PALACE. 

1. 

The varjing year with blade and sheaf 

Clothes and reclothes the happy plains : 
flere rests the sap within the leaf. 

Here stays the blood along the veins. 
Faint shadows, vapors lightly curl'd. 

Faint murmurs from the meadows come. 
Like hints and echoes of the world 

To spirits folded in the womb. 



Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 

On every slanting terrace-lawn. 
The fountain to his place returns, 

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. 
Here droops the lianner on the tower, 

On the hall-hearths the festal fires, 
The peacock in his laurel bower. 

The parrot in his gilded wires. 

3. 

Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs: 

In these, in those the life is stay'd. 
The mantles from the golden pegs 

Droop sleepily : no sound is made. 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

More like a picture seemeth all 
Than those old portraits of old kings, 

That watch the sleepers from the walJ. 

4. 
Here sits the butler with a flask 

Between his knees half-drained ; and the:e, 
The wrinkled steward at his task. 

The maid-of-houor blooming fair: 
The page has caught her hand in his •. 

Her lips are sever'd as to speak : 
His own are pouted to a kiss: 

The blush is flx'd upon her cheek. 



Till all the hundred summers pass, 

The beams, that through the oriel shine. 
Make prisms in every carven glass, 

And beaker brimm'd with noble wine. 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps, 

Grave faces gather'd in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps. 

He must have been a jovial king. 



All round a hedge npshoots, and shows 

At distance like a little wood; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes, 

And grapes with bunches red as blood; 
All creeping plants, a wall of green 

Close-matted, bur and brake and brier, 
And glimpsing over these, just seen. 

High up the topmost palace-spire. 

T. 
When will the hundred summers die, 

And thought and time be born again, 
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh. 

Bring truth that sways the soul of men? 
Here all things in their place remain. 

As all were order'd, ages since. 
Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, 

And bring the fated fairy Prince. 

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 



Year after year unto her feet. 

She lying on her couch alone. 
Across the purpled coverlet, 

The maiden's jet-black hair has grown. 
On either side her tranced form 

Forth streaming from a braid of pear! 
The slumbrous light is rich and warm. 

And moves not on the rounded carl. 



The silk star-broider'd coverlid 
Unto her limbs itself doth mould 

Languidly ever ; and, amid 
Her full black ringlets downward roll'di 



THE DAY-DREAM. 



65) 



Glows forth each softly-shadowed anu 
With bracelets of the diamond bright: 

Her coustaut beauty doth inform 
Stillness with love, and day with light. 

3. 

She sleeps : her breathings are not heard 

In palace chambers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd 

That lie upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps : on either hand upswells 

The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: 
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 

A perfect form in perfect rest. 

THE ARRIVAL. 

1. 
All precious things, discover'd late, 

To those that seek them issue forth ; 
For love in sequel works with fate, 

And draws the veil from hidden worth. 
He travels far from other skies — 

His mantle glitters on the rocks — 
A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes. 

And lighter-footed than the fox. 



The bodies and the bones of those 

That strove in other days to pass. 
Are wither'd in the thorny close, 

Or scattered blanching on the grass. 
He gazes on the silent dead, 

"They perish'd in their daring deeds." 
This proverb flashes thro' his head, 

"The many fail: the one succeeds." 

3. 

He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks : 

He breaks the hedge : he enters there : 
The color flies into his cheeks: 

He trusts to light on something fair ; 
For all his life the charm did talk 

About his path, and hover near 
With words of prcmiise in his walk, 

And whisper'd voices at his ear. 



More close and close his footsteps wind ; 

The Magic Music in his heart 
Beats quick and quicker, till he f?nd 

The quiet chamber far apart. 
His spirit flutters like a lark. 

He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee. 
"Love, if thy tresses be so dark. 

How dark those hidden eyes must be !" 

THE REVIVAL. 
1. 

A touch, a kiss ! the charm was snapt. 

There rose a noise of striking clocks. 
And feet that ran, and doors that clapt. 

And barking dogs, and crowing cocks; 
A fuller light illumined all, 

A breeze thro' all the garden swept, 
A sudden hubbub shook the hall. 

And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 



The hedge broke in, the banner hlew. 

The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd. 
The fire shot up, the martin flew. 

The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd. 
The maid and page renew'd their strife. 

The palace bang'd, and buzz'd, and cbifkt, 
And all the long-pent stream of life 

Dash'd downward in a cataract. 



And last with these the king awoke. 

And in his chair himself uprear'd, 
And yavvu'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke, 

" By holy rood, a royal beard I 
How say you ? we have slept, my lords. 

My beard has grown into my lap." 
The barons swore, with many words, 

'T was but an after-dinuer's nap. 



" Pardy," return'd the king, " but still 

My joints are something stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the bill 

I meutiou'd naif an hour ago?" 
The chancellor, sedate and vain. 

In courteous words return'd reply. 
But dallied with his golden chain, 

And, smiling, put the question by. 

THE DEPARTURE. 
1. 

And on her lover's arm she leant. 

And round her waist she felt it fold. 
And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is the old. 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
And deep into the dying day 

The happy princess follow'd him. 



" I'd sleep another hundred years, 

O love, for such another kiss ;" 
" O wake forever, love," she hears, 

" O love, 't was such as this and this.' 
And o'er them many a sliding star, 

And many a merry wind was borne, 
And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar, 

The twilight melted into morn. 



"O eyes long laid in happy sleep!" 

" O happy sleep, that lightly fled !" 
" O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep 1" 

" O love, thy kiss would wake the dead '" 
And o'er them many a flowing range 

Of vapor buoy'd the crescent-bark. 
And, rapt thro' many a rosy change, 

The twilight died into the dark. 

4. 
"A hundred summers! can it be? 

And whither goest thou, tell me where ? 
" O seek my father's court with me. 

For there are greater wonders there.'' 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim. 
Beyond the night, across the day. 

Thro' all the world she follow'd him. 

MORAL. 
1. 

So, Lady Flora, take my lay. 

And if you find no moral there. 
Go, look in any glass and say. 

What moral is in being fair. 
O, to what uses shall we put 

The wildweed flower that simply blows? 
And is there any moral shut 

Within the bosom of the rose 1 

2. 

But any man that walks the mead. 
In bud or blade, or bloom, may find. 

According as his humors lead, 
A meaning suited to his miod 



70 



AMPHION. 



Aud liberal applications lie 
In Art like Nature, dearest friend ; 

So 't were to cramp its use, if I 
Should hook it to some useful end. 

L'ENVOI. 
1. 
Tou shake your head. A random string 

Your finer female sense oflends. 
Well— were it not a pleasant thing 

To fall aslee,, with all one's friends; 
To pass with all our social ties 

To silence from the paths of men ; 
And every hundred years to rise 

And learn the world, and sleep again ; 
To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars. 

And wake on science grown to more, 
On secrets of the brain, the stars, 

As wild as aught of fairy lore ; 
And all that else the years will show, 

The Poet-forms of stronger hours. 
The vast Republics that may grow, 

The Federations and the Powers ; 
Titanic forces taking birth 
In divers seasons, divers climes ; 
For we are Ancients of the earth, 

And in the morning of the times. 

2. 

So sleeping, so aroused from sleep 
Thro' sunny decades new and strange. 

Or gay quiuquenniads would we reap 
The flower aud quintessence of change. 

3. 
Ah, yet would I — and would I might! 

So much your eyes my fancy take- 
Be still the first to leap to light 

That I might kiss those eyes awake ! 
For, am I right or am I wrong, 

To choose your own you did not care ; 
You'd have viy moral from the song. 

And I will take my pleasure there: 
And, am I right or am I wrong, 

My ftincy, ranging thro' aud thro'. 
To search a meaning for the song. 

Perforce will still revert to you ; 
Nor iinds a closer truth than this 

All-graceful head, so richly curl'd. 
And evermore a costly kiss 

The prelude to some brighter world. 

4. 

For since the time when Adam first 

Embraced his Eve in happy hour, 
And every bird of Eden burst 

In carol, every bud to flower. 
What eyes, like thine, have waken'd hopes ? 

What lips, like thine, so sweetly join'd ? 
Where on the double rosebud droops 

The fulness of the pensive mind ; 
Which all too dearly self-involved. 

Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me ; 
A sleep by kisses undissolved. 

That lets thee neither hear nor see: 
But break it. In the name of wife. 

And in the rights that name may give, 
Are clasp'd the moral of thy life. 

And that for which I care to live. 

EPILOGUE. 
So, Lady Flora, take my lay, 

And, if you And a meaning there, 
O whisper to your glass, and say, 

"What wonder, if he thinks me fair?" 
What wonder I was all unwise. 

To shape the song for your delight, 



Like long-tctil'd birds of Paradise, 
That float thro' Heaven, and cannot lignt'/ 

Or old-world trains, upheld at court 
By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — 

But take it — earnest wed with sport, 
Aud either sacred unto you. 



AMPHION. 

My father left a park to me. 

But it is wild and barren, 
A garden too with scarce a tree 

And waster than a warren : 
. Yet say the neighbors when they call. 

It is not bad but good land. 
And in it is the germ of all 

That grows within the woodland. 

O had I lived when song was grea; 

In days of old Amphion, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, 

Nor cared for seed or scion ! 
And had I lived when song was great. 

And legs of trees were limber. 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate. 

And fiddled in the timber! 

'T is said he had a tuneful tongue, 

Such happy intonation. 
Wherever he sat down and sung 

lie left a small plantation ; 
Wherever in a lonely grove 

He set up his forlorn pipes. 
The gouty oak began to move, 

Aud flounder into hornpipes. 

The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown, 

And, as tradition teaches. 
Young ashes pirouetted down 

Coquetting with young beeches ; 
And brion3'-vine and ivy-wreath 

Ran forward to his rhyming, 
Aud from the valleys underneath 

Came little copses climbing. 

The birch-tree swang her fragrant halfj 

The bramble cast her berry. 
The gin within the juniper 

Began to make him merry, 
The poplars, lu long order due, 

With cypress promenaded, 
The shock-head willows two and two 

By rivers gallopaded. 

Came wet-shot alder from the wave, 

Carae yews, a dismal coterie ; 
Each pluck'd his one foot from the gravfc, 

Poussetting with a sloe-tree: 
Old elms came breaking from the vine. 

The vine stream'd out to follow, 
And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine 

From many a cloudy hollow. 

And was n't it a sight to see. 

When, ere his song was ended. 
Like some great landslip, tree by tree. 

The country-side descended ; 
And shepherds from the mountain-eaves 

Look'd down, half-pleased, half-frighten d 
As dash'd about the drunken leaves 

The random sunshine lighten'd .' 

O, nature first was fresh to men, 
And wanton without measure ; 

So youthful and so flexile then. 
You moved her at your pleasure. 



LYRICAL MONOLOGUE 



71 



Twang out, my fiddle ! shake the twigs ! 

And make her dance attendance ; 
Blow, flute, and stir the stiflF-set sprigs, 

And scirrhous roots and tendons. 

'T Is vain ! in such a brassy age 

I could not move a thistle ; 
The very sparrows in the hedge 

Scarce answer to my whistle ; 
Or at the most, when three-parts-sick 

With strumming aud with scraping, 
A jackass heehaws from the rick. 

The passive oxen gaping. 

But what is that I hear 1 a sound 

Like sleepy counsel pleading: 
O Lord ! — 't is in my neighbor's ground. 

The modern Muses reading. 
They read Botanic Treatises, 

And Works on Gardening through there. 
And Methods of transplanting trees, 

To look as if they grew there. 

The wither'd Misses I how they prose 

O'er books of travell'd seamen, 
And show you slips of all that grows 

From England to Van Diemeu. 
They read in arbors dipt aud cut, 

Aud alleys, faded places, 
By squares of tropic summer shut 

And warm'd in crystal cases. 

But these, tho' fed with careful dirt. 

Are neither green nor sappy ; 
Half-conscious of the garden-squirt, 

The spindlings look unhappy. 
Better to me the meanest weed 

That blows upon its mountain. 
The vilest herb that runs to seed 

Beside its native fountain. 

And I must work thro' months of toil. 

And years of cultivation. 
Upon my proper patch of soil 

To grow my own plantation. 
I'll take the showers as they fall, 

I will not vex my bosom ; 
Enough if at the end of all 

A little garden blossom. 



t\^ILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL 
OLOGUE. 

MADE AT THE COCK. 



MON- 



PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock, 
To which 1 most resort, 

How goes the time? 'T is five o'clock. 

Go fetch a pint of port : 
But let it not be such as that 

You set before chance-comers. 
But such whose father-grape grew fat 

On Lusitauiau summers. 

No vain libation to the Mnse, 

But may she still be kind. 
And whisper lovely words, and use 

Her influence ou the mind. 
To make me write my random rhymes. 

Ere they be half-forgotten ; 
Kor add and alter, many times. 

Till all be ripe and rotten. 

1 pledge her, and she comes and dips 
Her laurel in the wine. 

And lays it thrice upon my lips, 
These favor'd lips of mine ; 



Until the charm have power to make 
New lifeblood warm the bosom, 

And barren commonplaces break 
In full and kindly blossom. 

I pledge her silent at the board ; 

Her gradual Angers steal 
And touch upon the master-chord 

Of all I felt and feel. 
Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, 

And phautom hopes assemble ; 
And that child's heart withm the man? 

Begins to move aud tremble. 

Thro' many an hour of summer suns 

By many pleasant ways, 
Against its fountain upward runs 

The current of my days . 
I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd ; 

The gas-light wavers dimmer ; 
And softly, thro' a vinous mist, 

My college friendships glimmer. 

I grow in worth, and wit, aud sen«e, 

Unboding critic-pen. 
Or that eternal want of pence. 

Which vexes public men. 
Who hold their hands to all, and cry 

For that which all deny them, — 
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry. 

And all the world go by them. 

Ah yet, the' all the world forsake. 

Tho' fortune clip my wings, 
I will not cramp my heart, nor take 

Half-views of men and things. 
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood; 

There must be stormy weather : 
But for some true result of good 

All parties work together. 

Let there be thistles, there are grapes • 

If old things, there are new ; 
Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, 

Yet glimpses of the true. 
Let raffs be rife iu prose and rhyme. 

We lack not rhymes and reasons, 
As ou this whirligig of Time 

We circle with the seasons. 

This earth is rich in man and maid ; 

With fair horizons bound ! 
This whole wide earth of light and shadi 

Comes out, a perfect round. 
High over roaring Temple-bar, 

And, set in Heaven's third story, 
I look at all things as they are, 

But thro' a kind of glory. 



Head-waiter, honor'd by the guest 

Half-mused, or reeling-ripe, 
The pint, you brought 'me, was the beet 

That ever .came from pipe. 
But tho' the port surp'asses prai.se, 

My nerves have dealt with stiffer. 
Is there some magic in the place ? 

Or do my peptics differ? 

For since I came to live and learn. 

No pint of white or red 
Had ever half the power to turn 

This wheel within my head. 
Which bears a season'd brain aboat. 

Uusubjcct to confusion, 
Tho' soak'd aud saturate, out and ot:% 

Thro' every convolution. 

For I am of a numerous house, 
With many kinsmen gay, 



I.YRICAL MONOLOGUE. 



Where long and largely we carouse, 

As who shall say me nay: 
Each mouth, a birthday coming on. 

We drink defying trouble, 
Or sometimes two would meet in one, 

And then we drank it double , 

Whether the vintage, yet unkept. 

Had relish flery-uew, 
Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept. 

As old as Waterloo; 
Or stow'd (when classic Canning died) 

lu musty bins and chambers. 
Had cast upon its crusty side 

The gloom of ten Decembers. 

The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is 1 

She answer'd to my call, 
She changes with that mood or this, 

Is all-in-all to all: 
She lit the spark within my throat. 

To make my blood run quicker, 
Used all her tiery will, and smote 

Her life into the liquor. 

And hence this halo lives about 

The waiter's hands, that reach 
To each his perfect pint of stout. 

His proper chop to each. 
He looks not like the common breed 

That with the napkin dally ; 
I think he came like Ganymede, 

From some delightful valley. 

The Cock was of a larger egg 

Than modern poultry drop, 
Stept forward on a firmer leg. 

And cramm'd a plumper crop; 
Upon an ampler dunghill trod, 

Crow'd lustier late and early, 
Sipt wine from silver, praising God, 

And raked in golden barley. 

A private life was all his joy, 

Till in a court he saw 
A something-pottle-bodied boy 

That knuckled at the taw: 
He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and good. 

Flew over roof and casement: 
His brothers of the weather stood 

Stock-still for sheer amazement. 

But he, by farmstead, thorpe, and spire. 

And follow'd with acclaims, 
A sign to many a staring shire, 

Came crowing over Thames. 
Right down by smoky Paul's they bore. 

Till, where the street grows straiter, 
One flx'd forever at the door. 

And one became head-waiter. 



But whither would my fancy go? 

How out of place she makes 
The violet of a legend blow 

Among the chops and steaks ! 
'Tis but a steward of the can, 

One shade more plump than common ; 
As just and mere a serving-man 

As any, born of woman. 

I ranged too high : what draws nie down 

Into the common day ? 
Is it the weight of that half-crown, 

Which I shall have to pay ? 
For, something duller than at first. 

Nor wholly comfortable, 
1 sit (my empty glass reversed), 

And thrumming on the table: 



Half fearful that, with self at strife, 

I take myself to task; 
Lest of the fulness of ray life 

I leave an empty flask: 
For 1 had hope, by something rare^ 

To prove myself a poet; 
But, while I plan and plan, my hail 

Is gray before I know it. 

So fares it since the years began, 

Till they be gather'd up ; 
The truth, that flies the flowing can. 

Will haunt the vacant cup : 
And others' follies teach us not. 

Nor much their wisdom teaches ; 
And most, of sterling worth, is what 

Our own experience preaches. 

Ah, let the rusty theme alone ! 

We know not what we know. 
But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone, 

'Tis gone, and let it go. 
'Tis gone: a thousand such have slipt 

Away from my embraces, 
And fall'n into the dusty crypt 

Of darken'd forms and fiices. 

Go, therefore, thou ! thy betters went 

Long since, and came no more : 
With peals of genial clamor sent 

From many a tavern-door. 
With twisted quirks and happy hits. 

From misty men of letters ; 
The tavern-hours of mighty wits, — 

Thine elders and thy belters. 

Hours, when the Poet's words and looks 

Had yet their native glow : 
Not yet the fear of little books 

Had made him talk for show ; 
But, all his vast heart sherris-wnrm'd 

He flash'd his random speeches ; 
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd 

His literary leeches. 

So mix forever with the past. 

Like all good things on earth I 
For should I prize thee, could'st thon last. 

At half thy real worth? 
I hold it good, good things should pass. 

With time I will not quarrel: 
It is but yonder empty glass 

That makes me maudlin-moral. 

Head-waiter of the chop-house here, 

To which I most resort, 
I too must part : I hold thee dear 

For this good pint of port. 
For this, thou shalt from all things suck 

Marrow of mirth and laughter ; 
And, wheresoe'er thou move, good luck 

Shall fling her old shoe after. 

But thou wilt never move from hence. 

The sphere thy fate allots: 
Thy latter days increased with pence 

Go down among the pots : 
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam 

In haunts of hungry sinners. 
Old boxes, larded with the steam 

Of thirty thousand dinners. 

We fret, we fume, would shift our skins. 

Would quarrel with our lot: 
Thy care is, under polish'd tins, 

To serve the hot-and-hot; 
To come and go, and come again, 

Returning like the pewit. 
And watch'd bv silent gentlemen, 

That trifle with the cruet. 



TO 



-LADY CLARE. 



73 



Live long, ere from thy topmost head 

The thick-set hazel dies ; 
Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread 

The corners of thine eyes: 
Live long, nor feel in head or chest 

Our changeful equinoxes, 
Till mellow Death, like some late gnest, 

Shall call thee from the boxes. 

But when he calls, and thou shalt cease 

To pace the gritted floor, 
And, laying down an unctuous lease 

Of life, shalt earn no more : 
No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, 

Shall show thee past to Heaven: 
But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, 

A piut-pot, neatly graven. 



TO 



AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. 

*' Cursed be he that niovea my bones." 

Shakespeare's Epitaph. 

You might have won the Poet's name. 
If such be worth the winning now. 
And gaiu'd a laurel for your brow 

Of sounder leaf than I can claim ; 

But you have made the wiser choice, 
A life that moves to gracious ends 
Thro' troops of unrecording frieuds, 

A deedful life, a silent voice : 

And you have miss'd the irreverent doom 
Of those that wear the Poet's crown : 
Hereafter, neither knave nor clown 

Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 

For now the Poet cannot die 
Nor leave his music as of old. 
But round him ere he scarce be cold 

Begins the scandal and the cry: 

" Proclaim the faults he would not show : 
Break lock and seal: betray the trust: 
Keep nothing sacred: 't is but Just 

The many-headed beast should know." 

Ah shameless ! for he did but sing 
A song that pleased us from its worth ; 
No public life was his on earth. 

No blazon'd statesman he, nor king. 

He gave the people of his best : 
His worst he kept, his best he gave. 
My Shakespeare's curse on clown and knave 

Who will not let his ashes rest ! 

Who make it seem more sweet to be 
The little life of bank and brier, 
The bird that pipes his lone desire 

And dies unheard within his tree, 

Than he that warbles long and loud 
And drops at Glory's temple-gates. 
For whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear his heart before the crowd ! 



LADY CLARE. 

It was the time when lilies blow. 
And clouds are highest up in air. 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 



I trow they did not part in scorn : 
Lovers long-betrotb'd were they: 



They two will wed the morrow morn : 
God's- blessing on the day ! 

" He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair: 

He loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 
Said, "Who was this that went from thee?" 

" It was my cousin," said Lady Clare 
" To-morrow he weds with me." 

"O God be thank'd !" said Alice the nurse, 
"That all comes round so just and fair: 

Lord Ronald is heir of all your lauds, 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 

" Are ye out of your mind, my uurse, my nurse 7* 
Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild ?" 

"As God 's above," said Alice the nurse, 
"I speak the truth : you are my child. 

"The old Earl's daughter died at my b'-east; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child. 

And put my child in her stead." 

"Falsely, falsely have ye done, 

mother," she said, "if this be true, 
To keep the best man under the suu 

So many years from his due." 

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the uurse, 

" But keep the secret for your life. 
And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 

When you are man and wife." 

" If I'm a beggar born," she said, 
" I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull off, the broach of gold, 
And fling the diamond necklace by." 

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse. 

" But keep the secret all ye can." 
She said "Not so: but I will know 

If there be any faith in man." 

" Nay now, what faith ?" said Alice the nurse, 
"The man will cleave unto his right." 

"And he shall have it," the lady replied, 
"Tho' I should die to-night." 

" Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! 

Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." 
"O mother, mother, mother," she said, 

" So strange it seems to me. 

"Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, 

My mother dear, if this be so, 
And lay your hand upon my head, 

And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown. 

She was no longer Lady Clare : 
She went by dale, and she went by down. 

With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 

And followed her all the way. 

Down slept Lord Ronald from his tower; 

" O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! 
Why come you drest like a village maid. 

That are the flower of the earth ?" 

" If I come drest like a village maid, 

1 am but as my fortunes are : 
I am a beggar born," she said, 

"And not the Lady Clare." 



74 



ST. AGNES. 



"Play me uo tricks," said Lord Rouald, 
" For I am yours in word and in deed, 

Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
"Your riddle is hard to read." 

O and proudly stood she up ! 

Her heart within her did not fail : 
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn : 
He turn'd, and kiss'd her where she stood: 

"If you are not the heiress born, 
And I," said he, " the next in blood— 

"If you are not the heiress born. 
And I," said he, "the lawful heir, 

We two will wed to-morrow morn. 
And you shall still be Lady Clare." 



ST. AGNES. 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon: 
My breath to heaven like vapor goes: 

May my soul follow soon ! 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward. 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord : 



Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies. 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soiled and dark, 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark. 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee ; 
So in mine earthly house I am. 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and lat. 

Thro' all yon starlight keen. 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, 

In- raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors ; 

The flashes come and go; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors, 

And strews her lights below, 
And deepens on and up ! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea^ 

The Bridegroom with his bride! 




" Deep on the convent-roof tlie sn 
Are sparkling to the moon." 



SIR GALAHAD. 



75 




SIR GALAHAD. 

My good blade carves the casques of men, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high. 

The hard brands shiver on the steel. 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack aud fly. 

The horse aud rider reel : 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume aud flowers fall in showers. 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

Ou whom their favors fall 1 
For them I battle to the end, 

To save from shame aud thrall: 
But all my heart is drawTi above, 

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine : 
I never felt the kiss of love. 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports move aud thrill ; 
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims. 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns : 
Then by some secret shrine 1 ride ; 

I hear a voice, but none are there : 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 



The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 
And solemn chants resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I And a magic bark ; 
I leap on board: no helmsman steers: 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light ! 

"Three augels bear the holy Grail : 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

Ou sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides-. 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go. 
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn. 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 

And, ringing, spins from brand and mail 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads. 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height ; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields: 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy field*. 

A maiden knight— to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear ; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease. 

Pure spaces clothed in liviug beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace. 

Whose odors haunt my dreams: 



7G 



TO E. L.— THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 



And, stricken by an angel's hand, 
This mortal armor that I wear, 

This weight and size, this lieart and eyes, 
Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
"O just and faithful knight of God ! 

Ride on ! the prize is near." 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide. 

Until I find the holy Grail. 



TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. 

Jllyrian woodlands, echoing falls 
Of water, sheets of summer glass, 
The long divine Peneian pass, 

The vast Akrokerauuian walls, 

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair. 
With such a pencil, such a pen, 
You shadow forth to distant men, 

I read and felt that I was there: 

And trust me while I turn'd the page. 
And track'd you still on classic ground, 
I grew in gladness till I found 

My spirits in the golden age. 

For me the torrent ever pour'd 
And glisten'd— here and there alone 
The broad-limb'd Gods at random thrown 

By fountain-arns ;— and Naiads oar'd 

A glimmering shoulder under gloom 

Of cavern pillars ; on the swell 

The silver lily heaved and fell ; 
And many a slope was rich in bloom 

From him that on the mountain lea 
By dancing rivulets fed his flocks, 
To him who sat upon the rocks. 

And fluted to the morning sea. 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 

In her ear he whispers gayly, 

" If my heart by signs can tell. 
Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily. 

And I think thou lov'st me well." 
She replies, in accents fiiinter, 

" There is none I love like thee." 
He is but a landscape-painter, 

And a village maiden she. 
He to lips, that fondly falter. 

Presses his without reproof: 
Leads her to the village altar. 

And they leave her father's roof. 
"I can make no marriage present; 

Little can I give my wife. 
Love will make our cottage pleasant, 

And I love thee more than life." 
They by parks and lodges going 

See the lordly castles stand ; 
Summer woods, about them blowing, 

Made a murmur in the land. 
From deep thought himself he ronses. 

Says to her that loves him well, 



" Let us see these handsome houses 

Where the wealthy nobles dwell." 
So she goes by him attended, 

Hears him lovingly converse. 
Sees whatever fair and splendid 

Lay betwixt his home and hers ; 
Parks with oak and chestnut shady, 

Parks and order'd gardens great, 
Ancient homes of lord and lady, 

Built for pleasure and for state. 
All he shows her makes him dearer : 

Evermore she seems to gaze 
On that cottage growing nearer, 

Where they twain will spend their days. 
O but she will love him truly ! 

He shall have a cheerful home ; 
She will order all things duly. 

When beneath his roof they come. 
Thus her heart rejoices greatly. 

Till a gateway she discerns 
With armorial bearings stately. 

And beneath the gate she turns ; 
Sees a mansion more majestic 

Than all those she saw before: 
Many a gallant gay domestic 

Bows before him at the door. 
And they speak in gentle murmur, 

When they answer to his call, 
While he treads with footstep firmer. 

Leading on from hall to hall. 
And, while now she wonders blindly. 

Nor the meaning can divine. 
Proudly turns he round and kindly, 

"All of this is mine and thine." 
Here he lives in state and bounty. 

Lord of Burleigh, fair and free. 
Not a lord in all the county 

Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the color flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to chin: 
As it were with shame she blushes, 

And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countenance all over 

Pale again as death did prove ; 
But he clasp'd her like a lover. 

And he cheer'd her soul with love. 
So she strove against her weakness, 

Tho' at times her spirits sank : 
Shaped her heart with woman's meekness 

To all duties of her rank : 
And a gentle consort made he. 

And her gentle mind was such 
That she grew a noble lady, 

And the people loved her much. 
But a trouble weigh'd upon her. 

And perplex'd her, night and morn, 
With the burden of an honor 

Unto which she was not born. 
Faint she grew, and ever fainter. 

As she murmur'd, " O, that he 
Were once more that landscape-painter. 

Which did win my heart from me !" 
So she droopd and droop'd before him. 

Fading slowly from his side : 
Three fair children first she bore him, 

Then before her time she died. 
M^ceping, weeping late and early. 

Walking up and pacing down, 
Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. 
And he came to look upon her. 

And he look'd at her and said, 
" Bring the dress and put it on her. 

That she wore when she was wod." 
Then her people, softly treading. 

Bore to earth her body, drest 
In the dress that she was wed in. 

That her spirit might have rest. 



EDWARD GRAY.— SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE. 



77 



EDWARD GRAY. 

Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town 
Met me tvalkiug on yonder way, 

"And have you lost your heart?" she said: 
" And are you married yet, Edward Gray J 

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to mer 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 

"Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more 
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 

"Ellen Adair she loved me well, 
Against her father's and mother's will : 

To-day I sat for an hour and wept, 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. 

" Shy she was, and I thought her cold ; 

Thought her proud, and fled over the sea ; 
Fill'd I was with folly and spite. 

When Ellen Adair was dying for me. 

•' Cruel, cruel the words I said ! 
Cruelly came they back to-day: 



'You 're too slight and fickle,' I said, 
' To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' 

"There I put my face in the grass — 
Whisper'd, ' Listsn to my despair: 

I repent me of all I did : 
Speak a little, Elleu Adair !' 

" Then I took a pencil and wrote 
On the mossy stone, as I lay, 

'Here lies the body of Ellen Adair; 
And here the heart of Edward Gray !' 

"Love may come, and love may go. 
And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree s 

But I will love no more, no more. 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 

" Bitterly wept I over the stone : 
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : 

There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! 
And there the heart of Edward Gray !" 




'«iir^/- 



* Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me: 
Bitterly weepintj I tura'd away." 



blR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINE- 
VERE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Like bouIs that balance joy and pain. 
With tears and smiles from heaven again 
The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came in a sunlit fall oi rain. 

In crystal vapor everywhere 
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between, 
And, far in forest-deeps unseen, 
The topmost elm-tree gather'd green 

From draughts of balmy air. 



Sometimes the linnet piped his song: 
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong: 
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along, 
Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong? 

By grassy capes with fuller sound 
In curves the yellowing river ran. 
And drooping chestnut-buds began 
To spread into the perfect fan. 

Above the teeming ground. 

Then, in the boyhood of the year. 
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer, 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 



A FAREWELL.— THE VISION OF SIN. 



She seem'd a part of joyous Spring; 
A gowu of grass-green silk she wore, 
Buckled with golden clasps before ; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 

Closed in a golden ring. 

Now on some twisted ivy-net, 

Now by some tinkling rivulet, 

In mosses mixt with violet 

Her cream-white mule his pastern set ; 

And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains 
Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warbliugs, 
When all the glimmering moorland rings 

With jingling bridle-reins. 

As she fled fast thro' sun and shade, 
The happy winds upon her play'd, 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid: 
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd 

The rein with dainty finger-tips, 
A man had given all other bliss, 
And all his worldly worth for this, 
To waste his whole heart in one kiss 

Upon her perfect lips. 



A FAREWELL. 

Flow down, cold rivnlet, to the sea. 

Thy tribute wave deliver : 
No more by thee my steps shall be, 

Forever and forever. 

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet then a river : 
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be. 

Forever and forever. 

But bere will sigh thine alder tree. 
And here thine aspen shiver; 

And here by thee will hum tlie bee, 
Forever and forever. 

A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
A thousand moons will quiver ; 

But not by thee my steps shall be. 
Forever and forever. 



THE VISION OF SIN. 
1. 
I HAD a vision when the nigbt was late: 
A youth came riding toward a palace-gate. 
He rode a horse with wings, that would have flown, 
But that his heavy rider kept him down. 
And from the palace came a child of sin, 
And took him by the curls, and led him in, 
Where sat a company with heated eyes, 
Expecting when a fountalii should arise: 
A sleepy light upon their brows and lips — 
As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse, 
Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes— 
Suft'used them, sitting, lying, languid shapes, 
By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of 
grapes. 



Then methought I heard a mellow sound. 
Gathering up from all the lower ground ; 
Narrowing in to where they sat assembled 
Low voluptuous music winding trembled, 
Wov'n in circles: they that heard it sigh'd. 
Panted hand in hand with faces pale. 



Swung themselves, and in low tones replied* 

Till the fountain spouted, showering wide 

Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail : 

Theu the music touch'd the gates and died* 

Rose again from where it seem'd to fail, 

Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing gale ; 

Till thronging in and in, to where they waited, 

As 't were a hundred-throated nightingale, 

The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd and pa!{ i 

tated ; 
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound. 
Caught the sparkles, and in circles. 
Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazCH, 
Flung the torrent rainbow round: 
Then they started from their places, 
Moved with violence, changed in hue. 
Caught each other with wild grimaces. 
Half-invisible to the view, 
Wheeling with precipitate paces 
To the melody, till they flew. 
Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces. 
Twisted hard in fierce embraces. 
Like to Furies, like to Graces, 
Dash'd together in blinding dew: 
Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony. 
The nerve-dissolving melody 
Flutter'd headlong from the sky. 



And then I look'd up toward a mountain-tract, 

That girt the region with high clifi' and lawn: 

I saw that every morning, far withdrawn 

Beyond the darkness and the cataract, 

God made himself an awful rose of dawn, 

LTnheeded: and detaching, fold by fold, 

From those still lieights, and, slowly drawing near 

A vapor heavy, hueless, formless, cold, 

Came floating on for many a month and 3'ear, 

Unheeded : and I thought I would have cpoken. 

And warned that madman ere it grew too late: 

But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine was broken, 

When that cold vapor touch'd the palace gate. 

And link'd again. I saw within my head 

A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean as death. 

Who slowly rode across a wither'd heath. 

And lighted at a ruin'd ir>u, and said: 



" Wrinkled hostler, grim and thin I 
Here is custom come your way; 

Take my brute, and lead him in, 
Stufl' his ribs with mouldy hay. 

"Bitter barmaid, waning fast! 

See that sheets are on my bed; 
What! the flower of life is past: 

It is long before you wed. 

"Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, 
At the Dragon on the heath 1 

Let us have a quiet hour. 
Let us hob-and-uob with Death. 

"I am old, but let me drink; 

Bring me spices, bring me wine ; 
I remember, when I think. 

That my youth was half divine. 

" Wine is good for shrivell'd lips. 
When a blanket wraps the day. 

When the rotten woodland drips. 
And the leaf is stamp'd in claj'. 

"Sit thee down, and have no shame 
Cheek by jowl, and knee by kne^: 

What care I for any name? 
What for order or degree? 



THE VISION OF SIN. 



79 



"Let me screw thee up a peg: 
i.et me loose thy tongue with wine: 

Callest thou that thing a leg ? 
Which is thinnest ? thine or mine ? 

"Thou Shalt not be saved by works: 

Thou hast been a sinner too : 
Kuiu'd trunks on wither'd forks, 

Empty scarecrows, I and you ! 

"Fill the cup, and fill the can: 

Have a rouse before the morn : 
Every moment dies a man, 

Every moment one is born. 

" We are men of ruin'd blood ; 

Therefore comes it we are wise. 
Fish are we that love the mud, 

Rising to no fancy-flies. 

"Name and fame! to fly sublime 

Through the courts, the camps, the schools, 
Is to be the ball of Time, 

Bandied in the hands of fools. 

"Friendship! — to be two in one — 

Let the canting liar pack ! 
Well I know, when I am gone, 

tlow she mouths behind my back. 

"Virtue!— to be good and just — 

Every heart, when sifted well. 
Is a clot of warmer dust, 

Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. 

" O ! we two as well can look 

Whited thought and cleanly life 
As" the priest, above his book 

Leering at his neighbor's wife. 

"Fill the cup, and fill the can: 

Have a rouse before the morn ; 
Every moment dies a man. 

Every moment one is born. 

"Drink, and let the parties rave: 

They are fill'd with idle spleen; 
Rising, falling, like a wave, 

For they know not what they mean. 

"He that roars for liberty 

Faster binds a tyrant's power; 
And the tyrant's cruel glee 

Forces ou the fieer hour. 

"Fill the can, and fill the cup: 

All the windy ways of men 
Are but dust that rises up. 

And is lightly laid again. 

"Greet her with applausive breath, 

Freedom, gayly doth she ti ead ; 
In her right a civic wreath, 

In her left a human head 

" No, I love not what is new ; 

She is of an ancient house : 
And I think we know the hue 

Of that cap upon her brows. 

" Let her go ! her thirst she slaljes 

Where the bloody conduit runs. 
Then her sweetest meal she makes 

Ou the first-born of her sons. 

" Drink to lofty hopes that cool- 
Visions of a perfect State i 

Drink we, last, the public fool. 
Frantic love and frantic hate. 

"Chant me row some wicked stave, 
Till thy drooping courage rise, 



And the glow-worm of the grave 
Glimmer in thy rheumy e3es. 

"Fear not thou to loose thy tongue; 

Set thy hoary fancies free ; 
What is loathsome to tlie young 

Savors well to thee and me. 

" Change, reverting to the years. 
When thy nerves could understand 

What there is in loving tears, 
And tlie warmth of hand in hand. 

"Tell me tales of thy first love — 
April hopes, the fools of chance: 

Till the graves begin to move. 
And the dead begin to dance. 

"Fill the can, and All the cup: 

All the windy ways ot men 
Are but dust that rises up, 

And is lightly laid again. 

"Trooping from their mouldy deuB 

Tiie chap-fallen circle spreads : 
Welcome, fellow-citizens. 

Hollow hearts and empty heads ; 

" You are bones, and what of that? 

Every face, however full, 
Padded round willi flesh and fat, 

Is but modelld on a skull. 

"Death is king, and Vivat Rex! 

Tread a measure ou the stones, 
Madam— if I know your sex, 

From the fashion of your bones. 

"No, I cannot praise the fire 

In your eye — nor yet your lip: 
All the more do I admire 

Joints of cunning workmanship. 

" Lo ! God's likeness — the ground-pian — 
Neither modell'd, glazed, or framea; 

Buss me, thou rough sketch of man. 
Far too naked to be shamed ! 

" Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 

While we keep a little breath ! 
Drink to heavy Ignorance ! 

Ilob-and-nob with brother Death ! 

"Thou art mazed, the night is long, 

And the longer night is near: 
What ! I am not all as wrong 

As a bitter jest is dear. 

" Youthful hopes, by scores, t t all, 
When the locks are crisp and curl'd ; 

Unto me my maudlin gall 
And my mockeries of the world. 

"Fill the cup, and fill tlie can ! 

Mingle madness, mingle scorn ! 
Dregs of life, and lees of man : 

Y'et we will not die forlorn." 

5. 

The voice grew faint: there came a further chnngf. 
Once more uprose the mystic mountain-range: 
Below were men aud horses pierced with worms. 
And slowly quickening into lower forms; 
By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross, 
Old plash of rains, aud refuse patchd with moss. 
Then some one spake : " Behold : it was a crime 
Of sense avenged by sense that wore with time." 
Another said: "The crime of sense became 
The crime of malice, and is eoual biame." 



80 



THE EAGLE. 



And one : " He had not wholly queuch'd his power ; 
A little grain of conscience made him sour." 
At last 1 heard a voice upon the slope 
Cry to the summit, " Is there any hope ?" 
To which an answer peal'd from that high laud, 
But in a tongue no man could uuderstaud; 
And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn 
(iod made Himself an awful rose of dawu. 



CoMi; not, when I am dead, 

To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, 
To trample round my fallen head, 

And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. 
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry ; 
But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime 

I care no longer, being all unblest : 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, 

And I desire to rest. 
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where 1 lie: 
Go by, go by. 



THE EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

He clasps the crag with hooked hands ; 
<'lose to tfie sun in lonely lands, 
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. 



The wrinkled sea beneath him crawis; 
He watches from his mountain walls, 
And like a thunderbolt he lalls. 



Move eastward, happy earth, and leavS 
Yon orange sunset waning slow : 

From fringes of the faded eve, 
O, happy planet, eastward go: 

Till over thy dark shoulder glow 
Thy silver sister-world, and rise 
To glass herself in dewy eyes 

That watch me from the glen belo\Y. 

Ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne, 
Dip forward under starry light. 

And move me to my marriage-mom, 
And round again to ha])py night. 



Break, break, break. 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea I 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy. 

That he shouts with his sister at play 1 
O well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay I 




'- ^'^-^-y--: 



" Break, break, break, 

on th.y cold gray stones, O Sea 1" 



THE BEGGAR MAID.— THE POET'S SONG. 



81 



And the stately ships go ou 
To their haven uudei- the hill ; 

But O lor the touch of a vanish'd hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, bieak, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



THE BEGGAR MAID. 

Her arms across her breast she laid ; 

She was more fair than words can say: 
Barefooted came the beggar maid 

Before the king Cophetua. 
In robe and crown the king stept down, 

To meet and greet her ou her way ; 
" It is no wonder," said the lords, 

"She is more beautiful th^m day." 

As shines the moon in clcndcd skies, 
She in her poor attire was seen : 

One praised her ankles, one her eyes, 
One her dark hair and lovesome mien. 



So. sweet a face, such angel grace. 
In all that laud had never been: 

Cophetua sware a royal oath : 
"This beggar maid shall be my queen!" 



THE POET'S SONG. 

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, 

He pass'd by the town and out of the street, 
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun. 

And waves of shadow went over the wheat, 
And he sat him down in a lonely place. 

And chanted a melody loud and sweet, 
That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, 

And the lark drop down at his feet. 

The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, 

The snake slipt under a spray. 
The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak. 

And stared, with his foot on the prey, 
And the nightingale thought, "I have sung manj 
sougs. 

But never a one so gay. 
For he sings of what the world will be 

When the years have died away." 




' Id robe and crown the king stept down, 
To meet and greet her on her way." 



THE PRINCESS : A MEDLEY. 



THE PRINCESS: 

A MEDLEY. 



TO 

HENRY LUSHINGTON 

THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED BY HIS FRIEND 



PROLOGUE. 

Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's day 
Gave his broad lawns until the set of suu 
Up to the people : thither flock'd at uoou 
His tenants, wife and child, and thither half 
The neighboring ))orough with their Institute 
Of which he was the patron. I was there 
From college, visiting the son, — the sou 
A Walter too, — with others of our set. 
Five others : we were seven at Viviau-place. 

And me that morning Walter show'd the house, 
Greek, set with busts: from vases iu the hall 
Flowers of all heavens, aud lovelier than their uames. 
Grew side by side ; aud on the pavement lay 
Carved stcnies of the Abbey-ruiu in the park. 
Huge Ammonites, and the first bones of Time ; 
And on the tables every clime and age 
Jumbled together: celts and calumets, 
Claymore and snow-shoe, toys iu lava, fans 
Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries, 
Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere, 
The cursed Malayan crease, and battle-clubs 
From the isles of palm : and higher on the walls, 
P.etwixt the monstrous horns of elk and deer, 
His own forefathers' arms and armor hung. 

Aud "this," he said, "was Hugh's at Agiucourt ; 
Aud that was old Sir Ralph's at Ascalou : 
A good knight he ! we keep a chronicle 
With all about him," — which he brought, and I 
Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt with knights 
Half-legend, half-historic, counts aud kings 
Who laid about them at their wills and died ; 
And mist with these, a lady, one that arm'd 
Her own fair head, and sallying thro' the gate, 
Had beat her foes with slaughter from her walls. 

"O miracle ot women," said the book, 
"O noble heart who, being strait-besieged 
By this wild king to force her to his wish. 
Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunn'd a soldier's death, 
But now when all was lost or seem'd as lost — 
Her stature luore than mortal in the burst 
Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on fire — 
Brake with a blast of trumpels from the gate, 
Aud, falling on them like a thunderbolt, 
She trampled some beneath her horses' heels. 
And some were whelm'd with missiles of the wall. 
And some were pnsh'd with lances from the rock, 
And part were drown'd within the whirling brook: 
O miracle of noble womanhood !" 

So sang the gallant glorious chronicle ; 
And, I all rapt iu this, " Coijie out," he said, 
"To the Abbey: there is Auut Elizabeth 



A. TENNYSON. 

And sister Lilia with the rest." We went 

([ kept the book and had my finger iu it) 

Down thro' the park: strange was the sight to me; 

For all the sloping pasture murmur'd, sowu 

With happy faces and with holiday. 

There moved the multitude, a thousand head's ; 

The patient leaders of their lustitrite 

Taught them with facts. One rear'd a fontofstoue 

And drew from butts of water on the slope. 

The Ibuntaiu of the moment, playing now 

A twisted snake, and now a rain of pearls, 

Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded ball 

Danced like a wisp : aud somewhat lower down 

A man with knobs and wires and vials fired 

A cannon : Echo answer'd iu her sleep 

From hollow fields: and here were telescopes 

For azure views; aud there a group of girls 

In circle waited, whom tlie electric shock 

Disliuk'd with shrieks and laughter: round the lake 

A little clock-work steamer paddling plied 

Aud shook the lilies: perch'd about the knolls 

A dozen angry models jetted steam: 

A petty railway ran : a fire-balloon 

Rose gem-like up before the dusky groves 

Aud dropt a fairy parachute aud i)ast : 

And there thro' twenty posts of telegraph 

They flash'd a saucy message to and fro 

Between the mimic stations ; so that sport 

Went hand iu hand with Science ; otherwhere 

Pure sport : a herd of boys with clamor bowl'd, 

And stump'd the wicket ; babies rolTd about 

Like tumbled fruit in grass ; and men and maids 

Arranged a country dance, and flew thro' light 

And shadow, while the twangling violin 

Struck up with Soldier-laddie, and overhead 

The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty lime 

Made noise with bees and breeze from end to end. 

Strange was the sight and smacking of the time ; 
And long we gazed, but satiated at length 
Came to the ruins. High-arch'd and ivy-claspt, 
Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire, 
Thro' one wide chasm of time and frost they gave 
Tlie park, the crowd, the house; but all within 
The sward was trim as any garden lawu : 
Aud here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, 
And Lilia with the rest, aud lady friends 
From neighbor seats: and there was Ralph himself, 
A broken statue propt against the wall, 
As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport. 
Half child, half woman as she was, had wound 
A scarf of orange round the stony helm, 
Aud robed the shoulders in a rosy silk. 
That made the old warrior from his ivied nook 
Glow like a sunbeam : near his tomb a feast 
Shone, silver-set ; about it lay the guests. 
And there we joined them : then the maideu Aunt 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



83 



Took this fair day for text, and from it preach'd 
All uui versa! culture for the crowd, 
And all things great ; but we, unworthicr, told 
Of College : he had clinib'd aci'oss the spilies, 
And he bad squeezed himself betwixt the burs, 
And he had breathed the Proctor's dogs : and oue 
Discuss'd his tutor, rough to coinniou men, 
But honeying at the wliisper of a lord; 
And one the Master, as a rogue in grain 
V'eueer'd with sanctimonious theory. 

But while they talk'd, above their heads I saw 
The feudal warrior lady-chid; which brought 
My book to mind: and opening this 1 read 
Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that rang 
With tilt and tourney ; then the tale of her 
That drove her foes with slaughter from her walls. 
And much I praised her nobleness, and "Where," 
Ask'd Walter, patting Lilia's head (she lay 
Beside him) " lives there such a woman now ?" 

Q,uick answer'd Lilia, "There are thousands now 
Such women, but convention beats them down: 
It is but bringing up; no more than that: 
You men have done it : how I hate you all ! 
Ah, were 1 something great ! I wish I were 
Some mighty poetess, I would shame yon then, 
That love to keep us children ! O I wish 
That I were some great Princess, I would build 
Far off from men a college like a man's. 
And I would teach them all that men are taught: 
We are twice as quick !" And here she shook aside 
The hand that play'd the patron with her curls. 

And one said smiling, " Pretty were the sight 
If our old halls could change their sex, and flaunt 
With prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans, 
And sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair. 
I think they should not wear our rusty gowns, 
But move as rich as Emperor-moths or Ralph 
Who shines so in the corner ; yet I fear, 
If there were many Lilias in the brood. 
However deep yon might embower the nest, 
Some boy would spy it." 

At this upon the sward 
She tapt her tiny silken-sandal'd foot: 
"That's your light way: but I would make it death 
For any male thiug but to peep at us." 

Petulant she spoke, and at herself she laugh'd ; 
A rose-bud set with little wilful thorns, 
And sweet as English air could make her, she: 
But Walter hail'd a score of names upon her. 
And "petty Ogress," and "ungrateful Puss," 
And swore he long'd at College, only long'd. 
All else was well, for she-society. 
They boated and they cricketed ; they talk'd 
At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics ; 
They lost their weeks; they vext the souls of deans; 
They rode; they betted ; made a hundred friends. 
And caught the blossom of the flying terms. 
But miss'd the mignonette of Vivian-place, 
The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus he spoke. 
Part banter, part aflfectiou. 

"True," she said, 
" We doubt not that. O yes, yon miss'd us much. 
I '11 stake my ruby ring upon it you did." 

She held it out ; and as a parrot turns 
Up thro' gilt wires a crafty loving eye. 
And takes a lady's finger with all care, 
And bites it for true heart and not for harm, 
So he with Lilia's. Daintily she shriek'd 
And wrung It. " Doubt my word again !" he said. 
"Come, listen ! here is proof that you were miss'd: 
We seven stay'd at Christmas up to read. 
And there we took one tutor as to read: 
The hard-grain'd Muses of the cube and square 
Were out of season : never man, I think, 



So monlder'd in a sinecure as he : 

For while our cloisters echo'd frosty feet. 

And our long walks were stript as bare as brooms, 

We did but talk you over, pledge you all 

In wassail : often, like as many girls — 

Sick for the hollies and the yews of home — 

As many little trifling Lilias — play'd 

Charades and riddles as at Christmas here. 

And ivhaVa wj thought and wlicn and io)iere and how 

And often told a tale from mouth to mouth 

As here at Christmas." 

She remember'd that: 
A pleasant game, she thought : she liked it more 
Than magic music, forfeits, all the rest. 
But these— what kind of tales did men tell men, 
She wonder'd, by themselves ? 

A half-disdain 
Perch'd on the pouted blossom of her lips : 
And Walter nodded at me; " //e began. 
The rest would follow, each in turn ; and so 
We forged a sevenfold story. Kind? what kind? 
Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas solecisms. 
Seven-headed monsters only made to kill 
Time by the fire in winter." 

" Kill him now, 
The tyrant ! kill him in the summer too," 
Said Lilia ; "Why not now," the maiden Aunt. 
"Why not a summer's as a winter's tale? 
A tale for summer as befits the time. 
And something it should be to suit the place. 
Heroic, for a hero lies beneath, 
Grave, solemn 1" 

Walter warp'd his month at this 
To something so mock-solemn, that I laugh'd 
And Lilia woke with suddeu-shrilling mirth 
An echo like a ghostly woodpecker, 
Hid in the ruins ; till the maiden Aunt 
(A little sense of wrong had touch'd her face 
With color) turn'd to me with "As you will; 
Heroic if you will, or what you will, 
Or be yourself your hero if you will." 

"Take Lilia, then, for heroine," clanior'd he, 
" And make her some great Princess, six feet high, 
Grand, ei)ic, homicidal ; and be you 
The Prince to wiu her !" 

" Then follow me, the Prince," 
I answer'd, " each be hero in his turn ! 
Seven and yet one, like shadows in a dream. — 
Heroic seems our Princess as required. — 
But something made to suit with Time and place, 
A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house, 
A talk of college and of ladies' rights, 
A feudal knight in silken masquerade. 
And, yonder, shrieks and strange experiments 
For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt them all— 
This loere a medley ! we should have him back 
Who told the ' Winter's tale ' to do it for us. 
No matter : we will say whatever comes. 
And let the ladies sing us, if they will. 
From time to time, some ballad or a song 
To give us breathing-space." 

So I began. 
And the rest follow'd : and the women sung 
Between the rougher voices of the men. 
Like linnets in the pauses of the wind : 
And here I give the story and the songs. 



A Prinoe I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face, 
Of temper amorous, as the first of May, 
With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a girl, 
For on my cradle shone the Northern star. 

There lived an ancient legend in our house. 
Some sorcerer, whom a far-oft' grandsire burnt 
Because he cast no shadow, had foretold, 
Dying, that none of all our blood should know 



84 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



The shadow from the substance, and that one 

Should come to tight with shadows and to fall. 

For so, my mother said, the story ran. 

And, truly, waking dreams were, more or less. 

An old and strange affection of the house. 

Myself too had weird seizures, Heaven knows what: 

On a sudden in the midst of men and day. 

And while I walk'd and talk'd as heretofore, 

I seem'd to move among a world of ghosts. 

And feel myself the shadow of a dream. 

Our great court-Galen poised his gilt-head cane. 

And paw'd his beard, and mutter'd " catalei)sy." 

My mother pitying made a thousand prayers; 

My mother was as mild as any saint. 

Half-canonized by all that look'd on her, 

So gracious was her tact and tenderness ; 

But my good father thought a king a king ; 

He cared not for the affection of the house ; 

He held his sceptre like a pedant's wand 

To lash offence, and with long arms and hands 

Reach'd out, and pick'd offeuders from the mass 

For judgment. 

Now it chanced that I had been^ 
While life was yet in biid and blade, betroth'd 
To one, a neighboring Princess : she to me 
Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf 
At eigh>, years old; and still from time to time 
Came murmurs of her beauty from the South, 
And of her brethren, youths of puissance ; 
And still I wore her picture by my heart, 
And one dark tress ; and all around them both 
Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees about their 
queen. 

But when the days drew nigh that I should wed, 
My father sent ambassadors with furs 
And jewels, gifts, to fetch her: these brought back 
A present, a great labor of the loom ; 
And therewithal an answer vague as wind: 
Besides, they saw the king; he took the gifts, 
He said there was a compact; that was true: 
But then she had a will ; was he to blame ? 
And maiden fancies ; loved to live alone 
Among her women ; certain, would not wed. 

That morning in the presence-room I stood 
With Cyril and with Florian, my two friends : 
The first, a gentleman of broken means 
(His father's fault) but given to starts and bursts 
Of revel ; and the last, m-y other heart. 
And almost my half-self, for still we moved 
Together, twiun'd as horse's ear and eye. 

Now, while they spake, I saw my father's face 
Grow long and troubled like a rising moon, 
Inflamed with wrath: he started on his feet, 
Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, and rent 
The wonder of the loom thro' warp and woof 
Prom skirt to skirt ; and at the last he sware 
That he would send a hundred thousand men, 
And bring her in a whirlwind: then he chew'd 
The thrice-turn'd cud of wrath, and cook'd his spleen, 
Communing with his captains of the war. 

At last I spoke. "My father, let me go. 
It cannot be but some gross error lies 
In this report, this answer of a king. 
Whom all men . ife as kind and hospitable: 
Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once seen, 
Whate'cr my grief to find her less than fame. 
May rue the bargain made." And Florian said: 
" I have a sister at the foreign court, 
Who moves about the Princess ; she, you know. 
Who wedded with a nobleman from thence: 
He, dying lately, left her, as I hear. 
The lady of three castles in that land : 
Thro' her this matter might be sifted clean." 
And Cyril whisper'd: " Take me with you too." 



Then laughing " what, if these weird seizures come 
Upon you in those lauds, and no one near 
To point you out the shadow from the truth ! 
Take me : I'll serve you better in a strait ; 
I grate on rusty hinges here:" but "No!" 
Roar'd the rough king, "you shall not; we ourself 
Will crush her pretty maiden fancies dead 
In iron gauntlets: break the council up." 

But when the council broke, I rose and past 
Thro' the wild woods that hung about the town . 
Found a still place, and pluck'd her likeness out ; 
Laid it on flowers, and watch'd it lying bathed 
In the green gleam of dewy-tassell'd trees : 
What were those fancies? wherefore break her troth 7 
Proud look'd the lips : but while I meditated 
A wind arose and rush'd upon the South, 
And shook the songs, the whispers, and the shrieks 
Of the wild woods together ; and a Voice 
Went with it, "Follow, follow, thou shalt win." 

Then, ere the silver sickle of that month 
Became her golden shield, I stole from court 
With Cyril aud with Florian, unperceived, 
Cat-footed thro' the town aud half in dread 
To hear my father's clamor at our backs 
With Hoi from some bay-window shake the night; 
But all was quiet, from the bastion'd walls 
Like threaded spiders, one by one, we dropt, 
And flying reach'd the frontier ; then we crost 
To a livelier land ; and so by tilth and grange, 
Aud vines, aud blowing bosks of wilderness. 
We gaiu'd the mother-city thick with towers, 
And in the imperial palace found the king. 

His name was Gama; crack'd and small his voice, 
But bland the smile that like a wrinkling wind 
On glassy water drove his cheek in lines; 
A little dry old man, without a star. 
Not like a king : three days he feasted us, 
And on the fourth I spake of why we came. 
And my betroth'd. "You do us, Priuce," he said, 
Airing a snowy hand and signet gem, 
"All honor. We remember love onrselvee 
In our sweet youth : there did a compact pass 
Long summers back, a kind of ceremony — 
I think the year m which our olives fiiii'd. 
I would you had her. Prince, with all my heart. 
With my full heart: but there were widows here, 
Two widows. Lady Psyche, Lady Blanche ; 
They fed her theories, in and out of place 
Maintaining that with equal husbandry 
The woman were an equal to the man. 
They harp'd on this; with this our banquets rang; 
Our dances broke and buzz'd in knots of talk; 
Nothing but this ; my very ears were hot 
To hear them : knowledge, so my daughter held, 
Was all in all ; they had but been, she thought, 
As children ; they must lose the child, assume 
The woman : then. Sir, awful odes she wrote. 
Too awful, sure, for what they treated of, 
But all she is and does is awful; odes 
About this losing of the child; and rhymes 
And dismal lyrics, prophesying change 
Beyond all reason: these the women sang; 
And they that know such things— I sought but peace ; 
No critic I— would call them masterpieces ; 
They master'd me. At last she begg'd a boon 
A certain summer-palace which I have 
Hard by your father's frontier : I said no, 
Yet being an easy man, gave It ; aud there. 
All wild to found an University 
For maidens, on the spur she fled ; and more 
We know not,^only this : they see no men, 
Not ev'n her brother Arac, nor the twins 
Her brethren, tho' they love her, look upon her 
As on a kind of paragon ; and I 
(Pardon me saying it) were much loath to breed 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



Dispute betwixt niytielf and mine: but since 
(And I confess witU riglit) you tliink me l)oiind 
lu some sort, I can give jou letlers to liei-; 
Aud, yet, to speak tlie ti-utli, 1 rate your cliauce 
Almost at naked uoiliiug." 

Ttius the king; 
And I, tho' nettled that he seem'd to slur 
With garrulous ease aud oily courtesies 
Our formal compact, yet, uot less (all frets 
But chatiug me on lire to find my bride) 
Went forth again with both my friends. We rode 
Many a long league back to the North. At last 
From hills, that look'd across a huid of hope. 
We dropt with evening on a rustic town 
Set iu a gleaming river's cresceui-curve, 
Close at the boundary of the liberties: 
There enter'd au old hostel, call'd mine host 
To council, plied him with his richest wines. 
And show'd the late-writ letters of the king. 

He with a long low slbilation, stared 
As blank as death iu marble; then esclaim'd 
Averring it was clear agaiust all rules 
For any man to go: but as his braiu 
Began to mellow, "If the king," he said, 
" Had giveu us letlers, was he bouud to speak ? 
The king would bear him out ;" and at the last — 
The summer of the viue in all his veins — 
"No doubt that we might make it worth his while. 
She ouce had past that way: he heard her speak; 
She scared him; life! he never saw the like; 
She look'd as grand as doomsday and as grave : 
And he, he reverenced his liege-lady there; 
He always made a poiut to post with mares; 
His daughter and his housemaid were the boys ; 
The land he understood for miles about 
Was till'd by women ; all the swine were sows. 
And all the dogs — " 

But while he jested thus 
A thought flash'd thro' me which I cloth'd in act, 
Remeniberiug how we three presented Maid 
Or Nymph, or Goddess, at high tide of feast. 
In masque or pageant at my father's court. 
We sent mine host to purchase female gear ; 
He brought it, and himself, a sight to shake 
The midriff of despair with laughter, holp 
To lace us up, till each, in maiden plumes 
We rustled : him we gave a costly bribe 
To guerdon silence, mounted our good steeds, 
And boldly ventured ou the liberties. 

We follow'd up the river as we rode, 
And rode till midnight when the college lights 
Began to glitter lirefly-like in copse 
And linden alley: then we past au arch. 
Whereon a woman-statue rose with wings 
From four wing'd horses dark against the stars ; 
And some inscription ran along the front, 
But deep iu shadow: further on we gain'd 
A little street half garden aud half house; 
But scarce could hear each other speak for noise 
Of clocks and chimes, like silver hammers falling 
Ou silver anvils, and the splash and stir 
Of fountains spouted up aud showering down 
In meshes of the jasmine and the rose: 
And all about us peal'd the nightingale, 
Kapt in her song, aud careless of the snare. 

There stood a bust of Pallas for a sign, 
By two sphere lamps blazon'd like Heaven and 

Earth 
With constellation and with continent, 
Above an entry: riding in, we call'd; 
A plump-arm'd Ostleress and a stable wench 
Came running at the call, and help'd us down. 
Then slept a buxom hostess forth, and sail'd. 
Pull blown, before us into rooms which gave 
Upon a pillar'd porch, the bases lost 
In laurel: her we ask'd of that and this. 
And who were tutors. "Lady Blanche," she said. 



"And Lady Psyche." "Which was prettiest, 
Best-nalured?" "Lady Psyche." " Hers are we," 
One voice, we cried; and I sat down and wrote. 
In such a hand as when a Held of corn 
Bows all its ears bel'ore the roaring East: 

"Three ladies of the Northern empire pray 
Your Highness would enroll them with your own, 
As Lady Psyche's pupils." 

This I seal'd: 
The seal was Cupid bent above a scroll, 
And o'er his head Uranian Venus hung, 
Aud raised the blinding bandage from his eyes: 
I gave the letter to be sent with dawn: 
And then to bed, where half in doze I seem'd 
To float about a glimmering night, and watch 
A full sea glazed with muffled moonlight, swell 
On some dark shore just seen that it was rich. 



As thro' the land at eve we went. 

And pluck'd the ripen'd ears. 
We fell out, my wife aud I, 
O we fell out I know not why. 

And kiss'd again with tear.s. 
And blessings on the falling out 

That all the more endears, 
\Vhen we fall out with those we love 

Aud kiss again with tears ! 
For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years. 
There above the little grave, 
O there above the little grave, 

We kiss'd again with tears. 

IL 

At break of day the College Portress came: 

She brought ns Academic silks, in hue 

The lilac, with a silken hood to each, 

Aud zoned with gold; and now wheu these were ou 

And we as rich as moths from dusk cocoons, 

She, curtseying her obeisance, let us know 

The Princess Ida waited : out we paced, 

I rtrst, aud following thro' the porch that sang 

All round with laurel, issued in a court 

Compact of lucid marbles, boss'd with lengths 

Of classic frieze, with ample awnings gay 

Betwixt the pillars, aud with great urns of flowers. 

The Muses and the Graces, group'd in threes, 

Eiiring'd a billowing fountain in the midst; 

And here aud there ou lattice edges lay 

Or book or lute ; but hastily we past. 

And up a flight of stairs into the hall. 

There at a board by tome and paper sat. 
With two tame leopards couih'd beside her throne, 
All beauty compass'd in a female fmin. 
The Princess ; liker to the inhabitant 
Of some clear planet close upon the Sun, 
Than our man's earth ; such eyes were iu her head, 
And so much grace and power, breathiug down 
From over her arch'd brows, with every turn 
Lived thro' her to the tijjs of her long hands. 
And to her feet. She rose her height, and said : 

"We give you welcome: not without rebound 
Of use and glory to yourselves ye come. 
The flrsl-fruits of the stranger: aftertiine, 
And that full voice which circles round the grave 
Will rank you nobly, mingled up with me. 
What! are the ladies of your land so tall?" 
"We of the court," said Cyril. "From the court," 
She answer'd, "then ye know the Prince?" and he: 
"The climax of his age! as tho' there were 
One rose in all the world, your Highness that. 
He worships your ideal." She replied: 
"We scarcely thought iu our own hall to hear 
This iiarreu verbiage, current among men. 
Like coin, the tin.sel clink of compliment. 
Your flight from out your bookless wilds would seem 
As arguing love of knowledge and of power; 



86 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



Your language proves you still the child. ludeed, 
We dream uot of him : wheu we set our hand 
To this great work, we purposed with onrself 
Never to wed. You likewii^e wili do well, 
Ladies, in .entering here, to cast and fling 
The tricks, which make us toys of men, that so, 
Some future time, if so indeed you will, 
You may with those self-styled our lords ally 
Your fortunes, justlier balanced, scale with scale." 

At those high words, we, conscious of ourselves. 
Perused the matting; then an officer 
Kose up, and read the statutes, such as these: 
Not for three years to correspond with home; 
Not for three years to cross the liberties: 
Not for three years to speak with any men ; 
And many more, which hastily subscribed. 
We enter'd on the boards: and ''Now," she cried, 
"Ye are green wood, see ye warp uot. Look, our 

hall : 
Onr Staines !— not of those that men desire, 
Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode. 
Nor stunted squaws of West or East; but she 
That taught the Sabine how to rule, and she 
The foundress of the Babylonian wall. 
The Carian Artemisia strong in war. 
The Rhodope, that built the pyramid, 
Clelia, Cornelia, with the Palmyrene 
That fought Aurclian, and the Roman brows 
Of Agrippina. Dwell with these and lose 
Convention, since to look on noble forms 
Makes noble thro' the sensuous organism 
That which is higher. O lift your natures up: 
Embrace our aims: work out your freedom. Girls, 
Knowledge is now no more a fountain seal'd: 
Drink deep, until the habits of the slave, 
The sins of emptiness, gossip and spite 
And slander, die. Better not be at all 
Than not be noble. Leave us: you may go: 
To-day the Lady Psyche will harangue 
The fresh arrivals of the week before; 
For they press in from all the provinces, 
And fill the hive." 

She spoke, and bowing waved 
Dismissal : back again we crost the court 
To Lady Psyche's : as we enter'd in, 
There sat along the forms, like morning doves 
That sun their milky bosoms on the thatch, 
A patient range of pupils ; she herself 
Erect behind a desk of satin-wood, 
A quick brunette, well-moulded, falcon-eyed. 
And on the hither side, or so she look'd. 
Of twenty summers. At her left, a child, 
]n shining draperies, headed like a star. 
Her maiden babe, a double April old, 
Aglai'a slept. We sat: the Lady glanced: 
Then Florian, but no livelier than the dame 
That whisper'd " Asses' ears " among the sedge, 
"My sister." "Comely too by all that's fair," 
Said Cyrii. " O hush, hush !" and she began. 

"This world was once a fluid haze of light. 
Till toward the centre set the starry tides, 
And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast 
The planets: then the monster, then the man; 
Tattoo'd or woaded, winter-clad in skins. 
Raw from the prime, and crushing down his mate : 
As yet we find in barbarous isles, and here 
Among the lowest." 

Thereupon she took 
A bird's-eye view of all the ungracious i)ast ; 
Glanced at the legendary Amazon 
As emblematic of a nobler age ; 
Appraised the Lycian custom, spoke of those 
That Jay at wine with Lar and Lucumo; 
Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Roman lines 
f)f empire, and the woman's state in each. 
How fur from just ; till, warming with her theme, 



She fulmined out her scorn of laws Salique 

And little-footed China, touch'd on Mahonut 

With much contempt, and came to chivalry : 

When some respect, however slight, was paid 

To woman, superstition all awry: 

However then commenced the dawn: a beam 

Had slanted forward, falling in a laud 

Of promise ; fruit would follow. Deep, indeed, 

Their debt of thanks to her who first had dart-fl 

To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, 

Disyoke their necks from custom, and assert 

None lordlier than themselves but that which made 

Woman and man. She had founded ; they must build. 

Here might they learn whatever men were taught : 

Let them not fear: some said their heads were less: 

Some men's were small ; not they the least of men .- 

For often fineness compensated size : 

Besides the brain was like the hand, and grew 

With using; thence the man's, if more, was more: 

He took advantage of his strength to be 

First in the field : some ages had been lost ; 

But woman ripen'd earlier, and her life 

Was longer; and albeit their glorious names 

Were fewer, scatter'd stars, yet since in truth 

The highest is the measure of the man. 

And not the Kaflir, Hottentot, Malay, 

Nor those hcu'n-handed breakers of the glebe, 

But Homer, Plato, Verulam ; even so 

With woman: and in arts of government 

Elizabeth and others ; arts of war 

The peasant Joan and others; arts of grace 

Sappho and others vied with any man : 

And, last not least, she who had left her place. 

And bow'd her state to them, that they might grow 

To use and power on this Oasis, lapt 

In the arms of leisure, sacred from the blight 

Of ancient influence and scoru." 

At last 
She rose upon a wind of prophecy 
Dilating on the future; "everywhere 
Two heads in council, two beside the hearth, 
Two in the tangled business of the world, 
Two in the liberal offices of life, 
Two plummets dropt for one to sound the abyss 
Of science, and the secrets of the mind: 
Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, more : 
And everywhere the broad and bounteous Earth 
Should bear a double growth of those rare souls. 
Poets, whose thoughts enrich the blood of the world. '" 

She ended here, and beckon'd us: the rest 
Parted; and, glowing full-faced welcome, she 
Began to address us, and was moving on 
In gratulation, till as when a boat 
Tacks, and the slackeu'd sail flaps, all her voice 
Faltering and fiuttering in her throat, she cried, 
"My brother !" " Well, my sister." "O," she said, 
"What do you here? and in this dress? and these? 
Why who are these? a wolf within the fold! 
A pack of wolves ! the Lord be gracious to me ! 
A plot, a plot, a plot to ruin all !" 
"No plot, no plot," he auswer'd. "Wretched boy, 
How saw you not the inscription on the gate. 
Let no man enter in on pain of death ?" 
"And if I had," he auswer'd, "who could think 
The softer Adams of your Academe, 
O sister. Sirens tho' they be, were such 
As chanted on the blanching bones of men ?" 
" But you will find it otherwise," she said. 
"You jest: ill jesting with edge-tools! my vow 
Binds me to speak, and O that iron will. 
That axelike edge uniiirnable, our Head, 
The Princess." "Well then. Psyche, take my life, 
And nail me like a weasel on a grange 
For warning: bury me beside the gate. 
And cut this epitaph above my bones; 
Here lies a In-other bi/ a sister slain, 
All for the common good of wonuDikind." 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



"Let me die too," said Cyril, "having seen 
Aud heard the Lady Psyche." 

I struck in : 
" Albeit so mask'd, Madam, I love the truth ; 
Receive it ; and in me behold the Prince 
Your countryman, altianced years ago 
To the Lady Ida: here, for here she was, 
And thus (what other way was left?) I came." 
"O 8ir, O Prince, I have no country; none; 
If any, this; l)ut none. Whate'er I was 
Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. 
Affianced, Sir? love-whispers may not breathe 
Within tills vestal limit, and how should I, 
Who am not mine, say, live: the thunderbolt 
Hangs silent; but prepare: I speak; it falls." 
"Yet pause," I said: "for that inscription there, 
I think no more of deadly lurks tlierein. 
Than in a clapper clapping iu a garth. 
To scare the fowl from fruit: if more there be, 
If more and acted on, what follows? war; 
Your own work marr'd: for this your Academe, 
Whichever side be Victor, in the halloo 
Will topple to the trumpet down, and pass 
With all fair theories only made to gild 
A stormless summer." "Let the Princess judge 
Of that," she said: "farewell. Sir— and to you. 
I shudder at the sequel, but I go." 

"Are you that Lady P.^ychc," I rejoiu'd, 
"The tifth in line from tliat old Plorian, 
Yet hangs his portrait in my father's hall 
(The gaunt old Baron with his beetle brow 
Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty figlits) 
As he l)estr(<de my Grandsire, when he fell. 
And all else (led: we point to it, aud we say, 
The loyal warmth of Florian is not cold. 
But branches current yet in kindred veins." 
" .\re you that Psyche," Florian added, "she 
With whom I sang about the morning hills, 
Pluug ball, flew kite, and raced the purple fly, 
And snared the squirrel of the glen ? are you 
That Psyche, wont to bind my throbbing brow. 
To smooth my pillow, mix the foaming draught 
Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and read 
My sickness down to happy dreams? are you 
That brother-sister Psyche, both in one? 
You were that Psyche, but what are you now?" 
"You are that Psyche," Cyril said, "for whom 
I would be that forever which I seem, 
Woman, if I might sit beside your feet, 
Aud glean your scatter'd sapience." 

Then once more, 
"Are you that Lady Psyche," I began, 
"That on her bridal morn before she past 
From all her old companions, when the king 
Kiss'd her pale cheek, declared that ancient ties 
Would still be dear beyond the southern hills ; 
That were there any of our people there 
In want or peril, there was one to hear 
And help them: look! for such are these aud I." 
"Are you that Psyche," Florian ask'd, "to whom. 
In gentler days, your arrow-wounded fawn 
Came flying while you sat beside the well 1 
The creature laid his muzzle on your lap. 
And sobb'd, and you sol)b'd with it, and the blood 
Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and you wept. 
That was fawn's blood, not brother's, yet you wept. 
O by the bright head of my little niece. 
You were that Psyche, and what are you now?" 
"You are that Psyche," Cyril said again, 
"The mother of the sweetest little maid. 
That ever crow'd for kisses." 

"Out npon it!" 
She answer'd, "peace! and why should I not play 
The Spartan Mother with emotion, be 
The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind ? 
Him you call great; he for the common weai, 
The fading politics of mortal Rome, 



As I might slay this child, if good need were. 

Slew both his sons : and I, shall I, on whom 

The secular emancipation turns 

Of half this world, be swerved from right to save 

A prince, a brother ? a little will I yield. 

Best so, jjerchance, for us, and well for you. 

hard, when love and duty clash ! I fear 

My conscience will not count nic fleckless ; yet — 

Hear my conditions: promise (otherwise 

You perish) as you came to slip away. 

To-day, to-morrow, soon : it shall be said. 

These women are too barbarous, would not leam ; 

They fled, who might have shamed us: promise, all.' 

What could we else, we promised each ; and she, 
Like some wild creature newly caged, commenced 
A to-aud-fro, so pacing till she paused 
By Florian ; holding out her lily arms 
Took botli his hands, and smiling faintly said : 
"I knew you at the first; tho' you have grown 
You scarce have alter'd: I am sad and glad 
To see you, Florian. / give thee to death. 
My brother ! it was duty spoke, not I. 
My needful seeming harshness, pardon it. 
Our mother, is she well ?" 

With that she kiss'd 
His torehead, then, a moment after, clung 
About him, and betwixt them blossom'd up 
From out a common vein of memory 
Sweet household talk, and phrases of the hearth, 
And far allusion, till the gracious dews 
Began to glisten and to fall: aud while 
They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came a voice, 
"I brought a message here from Lady Blanche." 
Back started she, and turning round we saw 
The Lady Blanche's daughter where she stood, 
Melissa, with her hand upon the lock. 
A rosy blonde, and in a college gown, 
That clad her iike an April daflfodilly 
(Her mother's color) with her lips apart. 
And all her thoughts as fair within lier eyes, 
As bottom agates seen to wave aud float 
In crystal currents of clear morning seas. 

So stood that same fair creature at the door. 
Then Lady Psyche, " Ah— Melissa— you ! 
Yon heard us?" and Melissa, "O pardon me! 

1 heard, I could not help it, did not wish : 
But, dearest Lady, pray you fear me not, 

Nor think I bear that heart within my breast. 

To give three gallant gentlemen to death." 

"I trust you," said the other, "for we two 

Were always friends, none closer, elm and vine ; 

But yet your mother's jealous temperament — 

Let not your prudence, dearest, drowse, or prove 

The Danaid of a leaky vase, for fear 

This whole foundation ruin, and I lose 

My honor, these their lives." " Ah, fear me uot," 

Replied Melissa ; " no— I would not tell, 

No, not for all Aspasia's cleverness. 

No, not to answer. Madam, all those hard things 

That Sheba came to ask of Solomon." 

" Be it so," the other, " that we still may lead 

The new light up, and culminate in peace. 

For Solomon may come to Sheba yet." 

Said Cyril, "Madam, he the wisest man 

Feasted the woman wisest then, in halls 

Of Lebiinonian cedar: nor should you 

(Tho' Madam ynu should answer, we would ask) 

Less welcome find among us, if yon came 

Among us, debtors for our lives to you. 

Myself for something more." He said not what. 

But "Thanks," she answer'd, "go: we have been 

too long 
Tosrether: keep your hoods about the face; 
They do so that aff'ect abstraction here. 
Speak little; mix not with the rest; and hold 
Your promise: all, I trust, may yet be well." 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



We turn'd to go, but Cyril took the child, 
And held her round the kuees against his waist. 
And blew the swoll'u cheek of a trumpeter, 
While Psyche watch'd them, smiling, and the child 
Push'd her flat hand against his face and laugh'd ; 
And thus our coul'ereuce closed. 

And then we strolled 
For half the day thro' stately theatres 
Bench'd crescent-wise. In each we sat, we heard 
The grave Professor. On the lecture slate 
The circle rounded under female hands 
With flawless demonstration: follow'd then 
A classic lecture, rich in sentiment. 
With scraps of thunderous Epic lilted out 
By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies 
And quoted odes, and jewels flve-words-long 
That on the stretch'd forefinger of all Time 
Sparkle forever : then we dipt in all 
That treats of whatsoever is, the state. 
The total chronicles of man, the mind. 
The morals, something of the frame, the rock, 
The star, the bird, the flsh, the shell, the flower, 
Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest. 
And whatsoever can be taught and known ; 
Till like three horses that have broken fence. 
And glutted all night long breast-deep in corn, 
We issued gorged with knowledge, and I spoke : 
" Why, Sirs, they do all this as well as we." 
"They hunt old trails," said Cyril, "very well; 
But when did woman ever yet invent?" 
" Ungracious 1" answer'd Florian, " have you learnt 
No more from Psyche's lecture, you that talk'd 
The trash that made me sick, and almost sad f " 
"O trash," he said, "but with a kernel in it. 
Should 1 not call her wise, who made me wise? 
And learnt ? I learnt more from her in a flash, 
Than if my brainpan were an empty hull. 
And every Muse tumbled a science in. 
A thousand hearts lie fallow in these halls. 
And round these halls a thousand baby loves 
Fly twanging headless arrows at the hearts. 
Whence follows many a vacant pang: but O 
With me, Sir, enter'd in the bigger boy, 
The Head of all the golden-shafted firm. 
The long-limb'd lad that had a Psyche too; 
He cleft me thro' the stomacher : and now 
What think you of it, Florian ? do I chase 
The substance or the shadow ? will it hold ? 
1 have no sorcerer's malison on me. 
No ghostly hauntings like his Highness. I 
Flatter myself that always everywhere 
I know the substance when I see It. Well, 
Are castles shadows ? Three of them ? Is she 
The sweet proprietress a shadow ? If not, 
Shall those three castles patch my tatter'd coat? 
For dear are those three castles to my wants, 
And dear is sister Psyche to my heart. 
And two dear things are one of double worth. 
And much I might have said, but that my zone 
Unmann'd me : then the Doctors 1 O to hear 
The Doctors ! O to watch the thirsty plants 
Imbibing! once or twice I thought to roar, 
To break my chain, to shake my mane: but thou. 
Modulate me. Soul of mincing mimicry ! 
Make liquid treble of that bassoon, my throat; 
Abase those eyes that ever loved to meet 
Star-sisters answering under crescent brows; 
Abate the stride, which speaks of man, and loose 
A flying charm of blushes o'er this cheek. 
Where they like swallows coming out of time 
Will wonder why they came ; but hark the bell 
For dinner, let us go V 

And in we stream'd 
Among the columns, pacing staid and still 
Bv twos and threes, till all from end to end 
With beauties every shade of brown and fair. 
In colors gayer than the morning mist. 
The long hall glitter'd like a bed of flowers. 



How might a man not wander from his wits 
Pierced thro' with eyes, but that I kept mine own 
Intent on her, who rapt in glorious dreams. 
The second-sight of some Astraean age. 
Sat compass'd with professors: they, the while, 
Discuss'd a doubt and tost it to and fro: 
A clamor thicken'd, mixt with inmost terms 
Of art and science : Lady Blanche alone 
Of faded form and haughtiest lineaments, 
With all her Autumn tresses falsely brown. 
Shot sidelong daggers at us, a tiger-cat 
In act to spring. 

At last a solemn grace 
Concluded, and we sought the gardens: there 
One walk'd reciting by herself, and one 
In this hand held a volume as to read. 
And smoothed a petted peacock down with that : 
Some to a low song oar'd a shallop by. 
Or under arches of the marble bridge 
Hung, shadow'd from the heat : some hid and sought 
In the orange thickets : others tost a ball 
Above the fountain-jets, and back again 
With laughter: others lay about the lawns. 
Of the older sort, and murmur'd that their May 
Was passing : what was learning unto them ? 
They wish'd to marry; they could rule a house; 
Men hated learned women : but we three 
Sat muttled like the Fates ; and often came 
Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts 
Of gentle satire, kin to charity, 
That harni'd not : then day droopt ; the chapel bells 
Call'd us : we left the walks ; we mixt with those 
Six hundred maidens clad in purest white, 
Before two streams of light from wall to wall. 
While the great organ almost burst his pipes, 
Groaning for power, and rolling thro' the court 
A long melodious thunder to the sound 
Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies. 
The work of Ida, to call down from Heaven 
A blessing on her labors for the world. 



Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea. 
Low, low, breathe and blow. 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go. 
Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me ; 
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest. 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Eest, rest, on mother's breast. 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Father will come to his babe in the nest, 
Silver sails all out of the west 

Under the silver moon : 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. 

in. 

Morn in the white wake of the morning star 
Came furroAving all the orient into gold. 
We rose, and each by other drest with care 
Descended to the court that lay three parts 
In shadow, but the Muses' heads were touch'd 
Above the darkness from their native East. 

There while we stood beside the fount, and watch'd 
Or seem'd to watch the dancing bubble, approach'd 
Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of sleep. 
Or grief, and glowing round her dewy eyes 
The circled Iris of a niirht of tears ; 
"And fly," she cried, "O fly, while yet you may! 
Mv mother knows:" and when I ask'd her "how," 
" My fault," she wept, " my fault ! and yet not mine ; 
Yet mine in part, O hear me, pardon me. 
My mother, 't is her wont from night to night 



THE PRINCESS : A MEDLEY. 



80 



To rail at Lady Psyche and her side. 

She says the Princess should have been the Head, 

Herself and Lady Psyche the two arms ; 

And so it was agreed when first they came ; 

But Lady Psyche was the right hand now, 

And she the left, or not, or seldom used ; 

Hers more than half the students, all the love. 

And so last night she fell to canvass you : 

'//«»• countrywomen! she did not envy her. 

Who ever saw such wild barbariaus? 

Girls ? — more like men 1' and at these words the 

snake. 
My secret, seem'd to stir within my breast ; 
And O, Sirs, could I help it, but my cheek 
Began to burn and burn, and her lynx eye 
To fix and make me hotter, till she laugh 'd: 
'O marvellously modest maiden, you ! 
Men ! girls, like men ! why, if they had been men 
You need not set your thoughts in rubric thus 
For wholesale comment.' Pardon, I am shamed 
That I niu£t needs repeat for my excuse 
What looks so little graceful : ' men ' (for still 
My mother went revolving on the word) 
'And so they are, — very like men indeed — 
And with that woman closeted for hours !' 
'Why — these — are — men:' I shudder'd: 'and you 

know it.' 
Then came these dreadful words out one by one, 
'O ask me nothing,' I said: 'And she knows too. 
And she conceals it.' So my mother clntch'd 
The truth at once, but with no word from me ; 
And now ihus early risen she goes to inform 
The Princess: Lady Psyche will be crnsh'd; 
But you may yet be saved, and therefore fly: 
But heal me with your pardon ere your go." 

" What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a blush ?" 
Said Cyril : " Pale one, blush again : than wear 
Those lilies, better blush our lives away. 
Yet let us breathe for one hour more in Heaven," 
He added, " lest some classic Angel speak 
In scorn of ns, 'they moiuited, Ganymedes, 
To tumble, Vulcans, on the second morn.' 
But I will melt this marble into wax 
To yield us farther furlough:" and he went. 

Melissa shook her doubtful curls, and thought 
He scarce would prosper. " Tell us," Florian ask'd, 
"How grew this feud betwixt the right and left." 
"O long ago," she said, "betwixt these two 
Division smoulders hidden : 't is my mother, 
Too jealous, often fitful as the wind 
Pent in a crevice : much I bear with her : 
I never knew my father, but she says 
(God help her) she was wedded to a fool ; 
And still she rail'd against the state of things. 
She had the care of Lady Ida's youth. 
And from the Queen's decease she brought her up. 
But when your sister came she won the heart 
Of Ida : they were still together, grew 
(For so they said themselves) inosculated ; 
Consonant chords that shiver to one note : 
One mind in all things: yet my mother still 
Affirms your Psyche thieved her theories, 
And angled with them for her pupiTs love: 
She calls her plagiarist; I know not what: 
But I must go : I dare not tarry," and light, 
As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled. 

Then murmur'd Florian, gazing after her: 
"An open-hearted maiden, true and pure. 
If I could love, why this were she: how pretty 
Her blushing was, and how she blush'd again. 
As if to close with Cyril's random wish : 
Not like your Princess cramm'd with erring pride. 
Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags in tow." 

"The crane," I said, "may chatter of the crane, 
The dove may murmur of the dove, but I 



An eagle clang an eagle to the sphere. 

My princess, O my princess ! true she errs, 

But in her own grand way ; being herself 

Three times more noble than three-score of men, 

She sees herself in every woman else, 

And so she wears her error like a crown 

To blind the truth and me : for her, and her, 

Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix 

The nectar; but — ah she — whene'er she moves 

The Samiau Here rises and she speaks 

A Memuou smitten with the morning Sun." 

So saying, from the court we paced, and gaind 
The terrace ranged along the Northei-n from. 
And leaning there on those balusters, high 
Above the empurpled champaign, drunk the gaie 
That blown about the foliage underneath, 
And sated with the innumerable rose. 
Beat balm upon our eyelids. Hither came 
Cyril, and yawning "O hard task," he cried: 
"No fighting shadows here! I forced a way 
Thro' solid opposition crabb'd and guarl'd. 
Better to clear prime forests, heave and thump 
A league of street in summer solstice down. 
Than hammer at this reverend gentlewoman. 
I knock'd and, bidden, enter'd ; found her there 
At point to move, and settled in her eyes 
The green malignant light of coming storm. 
Sir, I was courteous, every phrase well-oil'd, 
As man's could be ; yet maiden-meek I pray "a 
Concealment : she demanded who we were. 
And why we came ? I fabled nothing fair. 
But, your example pilot, told her all. 
Up went the hush'd amaze of hand and eye. 
But when I dwell upon your old affiance, 
She answer'd sharply that I talk'd astray. 
I urged the fierce inscription on the gale, 
And our three lives. True— we had limed onrselveSj 
With open eyes, and we must take the chance. 
But such extremes, I told her, well might harm 
The woman's cause. ' Not more than now,' sae 

said, 
'So puddled as it is with favoritism.' 
I tried the mother's heart. Shame might befall 
Melissa, knowing, saying not she knew: 
Her answer was, ' Leave me to deal with that.' 
I spoke of war to come and many deaths, 
And she replied, her duty was to speak, 
And duty duty, clear of consequences. 
I grew discouraged, Sir, but since I knew 
No rock so hard but that a little wave 
May beat admission in a thousand years, 
I recommenced : ' Decide not ere you pause. 
I find you here but in the second place. 
Some say the third— the authentic foundress you. 
I off'er boldly : we will seat you highest : 
Wink at our advent: help my prince to gain 
His rightful bride, and here I promise you 
Some palace in our land, where you shall re'gu 
The head and heart of all our fair she-world. 
And your great name flow on with broadening timf 
Eorever.' Well, she balanced this a little, 
And told me she would answer us to-day, 
Meantime be mute: thus much, nor more I gain'd." 

He ceasing, came a message from the Head. 
"That afternoon the Princess rode to take 
The dip of certain strata to the North. 
Would we go with her? we should find the laud 
Worth seeing ; and the river made a fall 
Out yonder;" then she pointed on to where 
A double hill ran up his furrowy forks 
Beyond the thick-leaved platans of the vale. 

Agreed to, this, the day fled on thro' all 
Its range of duties to the appointed hour. 
Then summon'd to the porch we went. She stood 
Among her maidens, higher by the head. 



90 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



H6r back against a pillar, her foot on one 

Of th'jse tame leopards. Kitteulike he roll'd 

And paw'd about her sandal. I drew near : 

I gazed. On a sudden my strange seizure came 

Upon me, the weird vision of our house: 

The Princess Ida seera'd a hollow show, 

Her gaj'-furr'd cats a painted fantasy, 

Her college and her maidens, empty masks, 

And I myself the shadow of a dream, 

For all things were and were not. Yet I felt 

My heart beat thick with passion and with awe; 

Then from my breast the involuntary sigh 

Brake, as she smote me with the light of eyes 

That lent ray knee desire to kneel, and shook 

My pulses, till to horse we got, and so 

Went forth in long retinue following up 

The river as it narrow'd to the hills. 

I rode beside her and to me she said: 
"O friend, we trust that you esieem'd us not 
Too harsh to your companion yester-morn ; 
Unwillingly we spake." '-No— not to her," 
I answer'd, "but to one of whom we spake 
Your Highness might have seem'd the thing you say." 
"Again?" she cr;ed, "are you ambassadresses 
From him to me ? we give you, being strange, 
A license: speak, and let the topic die." 

I staramer'd that I knew him— could have wisli'd— 
'•Our king expects — was there no precontract? 
There is no truer-hearted— ah, you seem 
All he pretigured, and he could not see 
The bird of passage flying south but long'd 
To follow: surely, if your Highness keep 
Your purport, you will shock him ev'n to death, 
Or baser courses, childreu of despair." 

"Poor boy," she said, "can he not read — no 
books ? 
Quoit, tennis, ball— no games ? nor deals in that 
Which men delight in, martial exercise? 
To nurse a blind ideal like a girl, 
Methinks he seems no better than a girl ; 
As girls were once, as we ourself have been ; 
We had our dreams — perhaps he mixt with them: 
We touch ou our dead self, nor shun to do it, 
Being other — since we learnt our meaning here, 
To lift the woman's fall'n divinity. 
Upon an even pedestal with man." 

She paused, and added with a haughtier smile: 
" And as to precontracts, we move, my friend, 
At no man's beck, but know ourself and thee, 

Vashti, noble Vashti ! Summon'd out 

She kept her stale, and left the drunken king 
To brawl at Shushan underneath the palms." 

"Alas your Highness breathes full East," I said, 
"On that which leans to you. I know the Prince, 

1 prize his truth: and then how vast a work 
To assail this gray pre-eminence of man ! 
You grant me license; might I use it? think, 
Ere half be done perchance your life may fail ; 
Then comes the feebler heiress of your plan. 
And takes and ruins all ; and thus your pains 
May only make that footprint upon sand 
Which old-recurring waves of prejudice 
Resmooth to nothing: might I dread that you. 
With only Fame for spouse and your great deeds 
For issue, yet may live in vain, and miss, 
Meanwhile, what every woman counts her due. 
Love, children, happiness ?" 

And she exclaim'd, 
'Peace, you young savage of the Northern wild '. 
What! tho' your Prince's love were like a God's, 
Have we not made ourself the sacrifice? 
You are bold indeed: we are not talk'd to thus: 
Yet will we say for children, would they grew, 



Like fleld-flowers every whfcre ! we like them well : 

But children die; and let me tell you, girl, 

Howe'er you babble, great deeds cannot die : 

They with the sun and moon renew their light 

Forever, blessing those that look on them. 

Children — that men may pluck them from our hearts, 

Kill us with pity, break us with ourselves — 

O— children — there is nothing upon earth 

More miserable than she that has a son 

And sees him err : nor would we work for fame ; 

Tho' she perhaps might reap the applause of Greati 

Who learns the one poc sto whence afierhands 

May move the world, tho' she herself effect 

But little : wherefore up and act, nor shrink 

For fear our solid aim be dissipated 

By frail successors. Would, indeed, we had been, 

In lieu of many mortal flies, a race 

Of giants living, each, a thousand years. 

That we might see our own work out, and watch 

The sandy footprint harden into stone." 

I answer'd nothing, doubtful in myself 
If that strange Poet-princess with her grand 
Imaginations might at all be won. 
And she broke out interpreting ray thoughts : 

"No doubt we seem a kind of monster to you; 
We are used to that: for women, up till this 
Cramp'd under worse than South-sea-isle taboo, 
Dwarfs of the gyn:eceum, fail so far 
In high desire, they know not, cannot guess 
How much theirj welfare is a passion to us. 
If we could give them surer, quicker proof.— 
O if our end were less achievable 
By slow approaches, than by single act 
Of immolation, any phase of death, 
We were as prompt to spring against the pikes. 
Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it, 
To compass our dear sisters' liberties." 

She bow'd as if to veil a noble tear ; 
And up we came to where the river sloped 
To plunge i'l cataract, .shattering on black blocks 
A breath of thunder. O'er it shook the woods. 
And danced the color, and, below, stuck out 
The bones of some vast bulk that lived and roar"d 
Before man was. She gazed awhile and said, 
" As these rude bones to us, are we to her 
That will be." "Dare we dream of that," I ask'ci, 
" Which wrought us, as the workman and his work. 
That practice betters ?" " How," she cried, "you lovo 
The metaphysics ! read and earn our prize, 
A golden broach: beneath an emerald plane 
Sits Diotima, teaching him that died 
Of hemlock ; our device ; wrought to the life ; 
She rapt upon her subject, he on her : 
For there are schools for all." "And yet," I said, 
"Methinks 1 have not found among them all 
One anatomic." "Nay, we thought of that," 
She answer'd, " but it pleased us not : in truth 
We shudder but to dream our maids should ape 
Those monstrous males that carve the living hound, 
And cram him with the fragments of the grave, 
Or in the dark dissolving human heart, 
And holy secrets of this microcosm, 
Dabbling a shameless hand with shameful jest, 
Encarnalize their S|)irits: yet we know 
Knowledge is knowledge, and this matter hangs-. 
Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty, 
Nor willing men should come among us, learnt, 
For many weary moons before we came, 
This craft of healing. Wore you sick, ourself 
Would tend upon you. To your question now, 
Which touches on the workman and his work. 
Let there be light and there was light: 't is sot 
For was, and is, and will be, are but is ; 
And all creation is one act at once. 
The birth of light : but we that are not all, 



THE TRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



91 



As parts, can see but parts, uow this, now that, 
And live, perforce, from thought to thought, and 

make 
One act a phantom of succession : thus 
Our weakness somehow shapes the shadow. Time ; 
But in the shadow will we work, and mould 
The woman to the fuller day." 

She spake 
With kindled eyes: we rode a league beyond. 
And, o'er a bridge of pinewood crossing, came 
On rtowery levels underneath the crag. 
Full of all beauty. "O how sweet," I said, 
(For I was half-oblivious of my mask,) 
"To linger here with one that loved us." "Yea," 
She answer'd, "or with fair philosophies 
That lift the fancy ; for indeed these fields 
Are lovely, lovelier not the Elvsiau lawns. 
Where paced the Demigods of old, and saw 
The soft white vapor streak the crowned towers 
Built to the Sun :" then, turning to her maids, 
"Pitch our pavilion here upon the sward; 
Lay out the viands." At the word, they raised 
A tent of satin, elaborately wrought 
With fair Corinna's triumph : here she stood. 
Engirt with many a fiorid maiden-cheek. 
The woman-conqueror: womau-conquer'd there 
The bearded Victor of ten-thousand hymns. 
And all the men monrn'd at his side : but we 
Set forth to climb : then, climbing, Cyril kept 
With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I 
With mine affianced. Many a little hand 
Glanced like a touch of sunshine on the rocks. 
Many a light foot shone like a jewel set 
In the dark crag : and then we tnrn'd, we wound 
About the cliffs, the copses, out and in. 
Hammering and clinking, chattering stony names 
Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap and tuff, 
Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the Sun 
Grew broader toward his death and fcl', and all 
The rosy heights came out above the lawns. 



The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story : 
The long light shakes across the lakes 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying 

O hark, O hear ! how thin and clesr. 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Eliland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying 

O love, they die in yon rich sky. 

They faint on hill or field or river: 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow forever and forever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flyin<r, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying, 

IV. 

" Thebe sinks the nebulous star we call the Sun, 
If that hypothesis of theirs be sonnd," 
Said Ida; "let us down and rest:" and we 
Down from the lean and wrinkled precipices, 
By every coppice-feather'd chasm and cleft, 
Dropt thro' the ambrosial gloom to where below 
No bigger than a glow-worm shone the tent 
Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she lean'd on me, 
Descending; once or twice she lent her hand. 
And blissful palpitations in the blood. 
Stirring a sudden transport rose and fell. 

But when we planted level feet, and dipt 
Beneath the satin dome and enter'd In, 



There leaning deep in broider'd down we sauK 
Our elbows: on a tripod in the midst 
A fragrant flame rose, and before us glow'd 
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and gold. 

Then she, " Let some one sing to us : lightlier 
move 
The minutes fledged with mnsic:" and a maid, 
Of those beside her, smote her harp, and sang. 

" Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes. 
In looking on the happy Antumn-tields, 
And thinking of the days that aie no more. 

"Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail. 
That brings our friends up from the underworld. 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge ; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

" Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

" Dear as remember'd kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigu'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love. 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more." 

She ended with such passion that the tear, 
She sang of, shook and fell, an erring pearl 
Lost in her bosom : but with some disdain 
Answer'd the Princess : " If indeed there haunt 
About the moulder'd lodges of the Past 
So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men, 
Well needs it we should cram onr ears with wool 
And so pace by: but thine are fancies hatch'd 
In silken-folded idleness ; nor is it 
Wiser to weep 'a true occasion lost. 
But trim our sails, and let old bygones be, 
While down the streams that float us each and aR 
To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice. 
Throne after throne, and molten on the waste 
Becomes a cloud: for all things serve their time 
Toward that great year of equal mights and rights^ 
Nor would I fight with iron laws, in the end 
Found golden : let the past be past; let be 
Their cancell'd Babels: tho' the rough kex break 
The starr'd mosaic, and the wild goat hang 
LTpon the shaft, and the wild fig-tree split 
Their monstrous idols, care not while we hear 
A trumpet in the distance pealing news 
Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, burns 
Above the unrisen morrow:" then to me, 
" Know you no song of your own land," she said, 
" Not such as moans about the retrospect. 
But deals with the other distance and the hues 
Of promise ; not a death's-head at the wine." 

Then I remember'd one myself had made. 
What time I watch'd the swallow winging south 
From mine own land, part made long since, and 

part 
Now while I sang, and maidenlike as far 
As I could ape their treble, did I sing. 

" O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eave«, 
And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee. 

" O tell her. Swallow, thou tnat Knowest each. 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the NortU. 



92 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



"O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow and light 
Upon hei- lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

" O were I thou that she might take me In, 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 

"Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love. 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? 

"O tell her. Swallow, that thy brood is flown: 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my uest is made. 

"O tell her, brief is life, but love is long, 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

" O Swallow, flying from the golden woods. 
Fly to her, and pipe aud woo her, and make her 

mine, 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee." 

I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each, 
Like ihe Ithacensian suitors iu old time, 
Stared with great eyes, and laugh'd with alien lips, 
And knew not what they meant; for still my voice 
Rang false : but smiling, " Not for thee," she said, 
" O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 
Shall burst her veil : marsh-divers, rather, maid. 
Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow-crake 
Grate her harsh kindred iu the grass : and this 
A mere love poem ! O for such, my friend, 
We hold them slight : they mind us of the time 
When we made bricks in Egypt. Knaves are men. 
That lute and flute fantastic tenderness. 
And dress the victim to the off"ering up. 
And paint the gates of Hell with Paradise, 
And play the slave to gain the tyranny. 
Poor soul ! I had a maid of honor once ; 
She wept her true eyes blind for such a one, 
A rogue of canzonets and serenades. ■ 
I loved her. Peace be with her. She is dead. 
So they blaspheme the muse ! but great is song 
Used to great ends : ourself have often tried 
Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have dash'd 
The passion of the prophetess; for song 
Is duer unto freedom, force and growth 
Of spirit, than to Junketing and love. 
Love is it ? Would this same mock-love, aud this 
Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter bats. 
Till all men grew to rate us at our worth. 
Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babes 
To be dandled, no, but livinsr wills, and sphered 
Whole in ourselves and owed to none. Enough! 
But now to leaven play with profit, you. 
Know you no song, the true growth of yonr soil, 
That gives the manners of your countrywomen ?" 

She spoke aud turn'd her sumptuous head with 
eyes 
Of shining expectation flxt on mine. 
Then while 1 dragg'd my brains for such a song, 
Cyril, with whom the bell-mouth'd flask had wrought. 
Or master'd by the sense of sport, began 
To troll a careless, careless tavern-catch 
Of Moll and Meg, and strange experiences 
Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded at him, 
I frowning ; Psyche flush'd and wann'd and shook ; 
The lilylike Melissa droop'd her brows ; 
" Forbear," the Princess cried; "Forbear, Sir," I; 
And heated thro' and thro' with wrath and love, 
I smote him on the breast; he started up; 
There rose a shriek as of a city sack'd ; 
Melissa clamor'd, "Flee the death;" "To horse," 
Said Ida ; " home 1 to horse !" and fled, as flies 



A troop of snowy doves athwart the dusk. 

When some one batters at the dovecote doors, 

Disorderly the women. Alone I stood 

With Florian, cursing Cyril, vcxt at heart. 

In the pavilion : there like parting hopes 

I heard them passiiig from me : hoof by hoot, 

Aud every hoof a knell to my desires, 

Clang'd on the bridge; aud then another shriek, 

" The Head, the Head, the Princess, O the Head !" 

For blind with rage she miss'd the plank, and roU'd 

In the river. Out I sprang from glow to gloom: 

There whirl'd her white robe like a blossom'd brancfe 

Rapt to the horrible fall : a glance I gave. 

No more ; but woman-vested as I was 

Plunged; aud the flood drew; yet I caught her; 

then 
Oaring one arm, and bearing in my left 
The weight of all the hopes of half the world, 
Strove to bufi"et to laud iu vain. A tree 
Was half-disrooted from his place and stoop'd 
To drench his dark locks in the gurgling wave 
Mid-channel. Right on this we drove and caught. 
And grasping down the boughs 1 gaiu'd the shore. 

There stood her maidens glimmeringly group'd 
Iu the hollow bank. One reaching fo'rward drew 
My burthen from mine arms ; they cried, " She 

lives !" 
They bore her back into the tent ; but I, 
So much a kind of shame within me wrought, 
Not yet eudured to meet her opening eyes, 
Nor found my friends ; but push'd aloue on foot 
(For since her horse was lost I left her mine) 
Across the woods, aud less from Indian craft 
Thau beelike instinct hiveward, found at length 
The garden portals. Two great statues. Art 
And Science, Caryatids, lifted up 
A weight of emblem, aud betwixt were valves 
Of opeu-work in which the hunter rued 
His rash intrusion, manlike, but his brows 
Had sprouted, aud the branches thereupon 
Spread out at top, and grimly spiked the gates. 

A little space was left between the horns. 
Thro' which I clamber'd o'er at top with pain, 
riropt on the sward, aud up the linden walks. 
And, tost on thoughts that changed from hue to hue. 
Now poring ou the glow-worm, now the star, 
I paced the terrace till the bear had wheel'd 
Thro' a great arc his seven slow suns. 

A step 
Of lightest echo, then a loftier form 
Thau female, moving thro' the uncertain gloom, 
Disturb'd me with the doubt " if this were she," 
But it was Florian. " Hist, O hist," he said, 
" They seek us: out so late is out of rules. 
Moreover ' Seize the strangers ' is the cry. 
How came you here?" I told him: "I," said he, 
" Last of the train, a moral leper, I, 
To whom none spake, half-sick at heart, returu'd, 
Arriving all confused among the rest 
With hooded brows I crept into the hall. 
And, couch'd behind a Judith, underneath 
The head of Holofernes peep'd and saw. 
Girl after girl was call'd to trial: each 
Disclaim'd all knowledge of us : last of all, 
Melissa : trust me. Sir, I pitied her. 
She, question'd if she knew us men, at first 
Was silent; closer prest, denied it not: 
And theu, demanded if her mother knew, 
Or Psyche, she aflirm'd not, or denied : 
Prom whence the Royal mind, familiar with her, 
Easily gather'd either guilt. She sent 
For Psyche, hut she was uot there ; she call'd 
For Psyche's child to cast it from the doors ; 
She sent for Blanche to accuse her face to face; 
And I slipt out : but whither will you now ? 
And where are Psyche, Cyril ? both are fied : 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



',(3 



What, if together? tli?,t were not so well. 
Would rather we had never come 1 I dread 
His wilduess, and the chances of the dark." 

" And yet," I said, " you wrong him more than I 
That struck him: this is proper to the clowu, 
Tho' smock'd, or furr'd and purpled, still the clown. 
To harm the thing that trusts him, and to shame 
That which he says he loves: for Cyril, howe'er 
He deal in frolic, as to-night — the song 
jMight have been worse and sinn'd in grosser lips 
Beyond all pardon — as it is, I hold 
These flashes on the surface are not he. 
He has a solid base of temperament : 
But as the water-lily starts and slides 
Upon the level in little pufts of wind, 
Tho' auchor'd to the bottom, such is he." 

Scarce had I ceased when from a tamarisk near 
Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, " Names," 
He, standing still, was clutch'd; but I began 
To thrid the musky-circled mazes, wind 
And double in and out the boles, and race 
By all the fountains: fleet I was of foot: 
Before me shower'd the rose in flakes ; behind 
I heard the puft''d pursuer ; at mine ear 
Bubbled the nightingale and heeded not, 
And secret laughter tickled all my soul. 
At last I hook'd my ankle in a vine. 
That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne, 
And falling on my face was caught and known. 

They haled us to the Princess where she sat 
High in the hall: above her droop'd a lamp, 
And made the single jewel on her brow 
Burn like the mystic fire on a mast-head. 
Prophet of storm : a handmaid on each side 
Bow'd toward her, combing out her long black hair 
Damp from the river ; and close behind her stood 
Eight daughters of the plough, stronger than men, 
Huge women blowzed with health, and wind, and 

rain. 
And labor. Each was like a Druid rock; 
Or like a spire of land that stands apart 
Cleft from the main, and wail'd about with mews. 

Then, as we came, the crowd dividing clove 
An advent to the throne ; and there-beside, 
Half-naked, as if caught at once from bed 
And tumbled on the purple footcloth, lay 
The lily-shiniug child ; and on the left, 
Bow'd on her palms and folded up from wrong. 
Her round white shoulder shaken with her sobs, 
Melissa knelt ; ^bnt Lady Blanche erect 
Stood up and spake, an aflluent orator. 

"It was not thus, O Princess, in old days: 
You [jrized my counsel, lived upon my lips : - 
I led you then to all the Casialies ; 
I fed you with the milk of every Muse ; 
I loved you like this kneeler, and you me 
Your second mother: those were graciouu times. 
Then came your new friend : you began to change — 
I saw it and grieved— to slacken and to cool ; 
Till taken with her seeming, openness 
You turned your warmer currents all to her, 
To me you froze : this was my meed for all. 
Yet I bore up in part from ancient love. 
And partly that I hoped to win you back. 
And partly conscious of my own deserts. 
And partly that you were my civil head, 
And chiefly you were born for something great, 
In which I might your fellow-worker be. 
When time should serve ; and thus a noble scheme 
Grew up from seed we two long since had sown ; 
In us true growth, in her a Jonah's gourd. 
Up in one night and due to sudden sun : 
We took this palace ; but even from the first 



You stood in your own light and darken'd mine. 
What student came but that you planed her path 
To Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise, 
A foreigner, and 1 your countrywoman, 
I your old friend and tried, she new in all ? 
But still her lists were swell'd and mine were lean; 
Yet I bore up in hope she would be known : 
Then came these wolves: tlieij knew her: they en- 
dured. 
Long-closeted with her the yester-morn. 
To tell her what they were, and she to hear : 
And me none told: not less to an eye like mina, 
A lidless watcher of the public weal. 
Last night, their mask was patent, and my foot 
Was to you : but I thought again : I fear'd 
To meet a cold ' We thank you, we shall hear of it 
From Lady Psyche :' you had gone to her, 
She told, perforce ; and winning easy grace, 
No doubt, for slight delay, remain'd among us 
In our young nursery still unknown, the stem 
Less grain than touchwood, while my honest heat 
Were all miscounted as malignant haste 
To push my rival out of place and power. 
But public use recjuired she should be known ; 
And since my oath was ta'eu for public use, 
I broke the letter of it to keep the sense. 
T spoke not then at first, but watch'd them well, 
Saw that they kept apart, no mischief done ; 
And yet this day (tho' you should hate me for it) 
I came to tell you: found that you had gone, 
Ridd'n to the hills, she likewise: now, I thought, 
That surely she will speak ; if not, then I : 
Did she? These monsters blazon'd what they were, 
According to the coarseness of their kind. 
For thus I hear ; and known at last (my work) 
And full of cowardice and guilty shame, 
I grant in her some sense of shame, she flies; 
And I remain on whom to wreak your rage, 
I, that have leut my life to build up yours, 
I that have wasted here health, wealth, and time, ■ 
And talents, I— you know it— I will not boast- 
Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan. 
Divorced from my experience, will be chaff 
For every gust of chance, and men will say 
We did not know the real light, but chased 
The wisp that flickers where no foot can tread." 

She ceased: the Princess answer'd coldly "Good; 
Your oath is broken : we dismiss you : go. 
For this lost lamb (she pointed to the child) 
Our mind is changed : we take it to ourself." 

Thereat the Lady stretch'd a vulture throat, 
And shot from crooked lips a haggard smile. 
"The plan was mine. I built the nest," she paid, 
"To hatch the cuckoo. Rise !" and stoop'd to updrag 
Melissa: she, hp.lf on her mother propt, 
Half-drooping from her, turn'd her face, and cast 
A liquid look on Ida, full of prayer, 
Which melted Ploriau's fancy as she hung, 
A Niobeau daughter, one arm out, 
Appealing to the bolts of Heaven ; and while 
We gazed upon her came a little stir 
About the doors, and on a sudden rush'd 
Amoiig us, out of t;.jath, as one pursued, 
A woman-post in flying raiment. Fear 
Stared in her eyes, and chalk'd her face, and wing'd 
Her transit to the throne, whereby she fell 
Delivering seal'd despatches which the Head 
Took half-amazed, and in her lion's mood 
Tore open, silent we with blind surmise 
Regarding, while she read, till over brow 
And cheek and bosom brake the wrathful bloom 
As of some fire against a stormy cloud, 
When the wild peasant rights himself, the rick 
Flames, and his anger reddens in the heavens ; 
For anger most it seem'd, while now her breast, 
Beaten with some great passion at her hsart. 



94 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



Palpitated, her hand shook, and we heard 
In the dead hush the papers that she held 
Rustle: at once the lost lamb at her feet 
Sent out a bitter bleating for its dam ; 
The plaintive cry jarr'd on her ire : she crush'd 
The scrolls together, made a sudden turn 
As if to speak, but, utterance failing her. 
She whirl'd them on to me, as who should sny 
"Read,'" and I read— two letters— one her sire's. 

"Fair daughter, when we sent the Prince your way 
We knew not your ungracious laws, which learnt, 
We, conscious of what temper you are built, 
C'ame all in haste to hinder wrong, but fell 
Into his father's hands, who has this night, 
You lying close upon his territory, 
Slipt round and in the dark invested you. 
And here he Iceeps nie hostage for his sou." 

The second was my father's, running thus : 
" You have our son : touch not a hair of his head : 
Render him up unscathed: give him your hand: 
Cleave to your contract: tho' indeed we hear 
You hold the woman is the better man ; 
A rampant heresy, such as if it spread 
Would make all women kick against tneir lords 
Thro' all the world, and which might well deserve 
That we this night should pluck your palace down; 
And we will do it, unless you send us back 
Our son, on the instant, whole." 

So far I read ; 
And then stood up and spoke impetuously. 

"O not to pry and peer on your reserve, 
But led by golden wishes, and a hope 
The child of regal compact, did I break 
Your precinct ; not a scorner of your sex 
But venerator, zealous it should be 
All that it might be ; hear me, for I bear, 
Tho' man, yet human, whatsoe'er your wrongs, 
From the flaxen curl to the gray lock a life 
Less mine than yours: my uurse would tell me of 

you; 
1 babbled for you, as babies for the moon, 
Vague brightness ; when a boy, you stoop'd to me 
From all high places, lived in all fair lights. 
Came in long breezes rapt from inmost south 
And blown to inmost north ; at eve and dawn 
With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods; 
The leader wildswan in among the stars 
Would clang it, and lapt in wreaths of glow-worm 

light 
The mellow breaker murmur'd Ida. Now, 
Because I would have reach'd you, had you been 
Si)hered up with Cassiopeia, or the enthroned 
Persephone in Hades, now at length. 
Those winters of abeyance all worn out, 
A man I came to see you : but, indeed, 
Not in this frequence can I lend full tongu9, 
C) noble Ida, to those thoughts that wait 
On you, their centre : let me say but this, 
That many a famous man and woman, town 
And landskii), have I heard of, after seen 
The dwarfs of prestige ; tiio' when known, there grew 
Another kind of beauty in detail 
Made them worth knowing; but in you I found 
My boyish dream involved and dazzled down 
And master'd, while that after-beauty makes 
Such head from act to act, from hour to hour, 
Within me, that except you slay me here. 
According to your bitter statute-book, 
I can not cease to follow yon, as they say 
The seal does music ; who desire you more 
Than growing boys their manhood ; dying lips, 
With many Uiousand matters left to do, 
The breath of life; O more than poor men wealth, 
Thau sick men health— yours, yours, not mine— but 

half 



Without you, with you, whole; and of those halve; 
You worthiest ; and howe'er you block and bar 
Your heart with system out from mine, I hold 
That it Ijecomes no man to nurse despair. 
But in the teeth of clench'd antagonisms 
To follow up the worthiest till he die : 
Yet that I came not all unauthorized 
Behold your father's letter." 

On one knee 
Kneeling, I gave it, which she caught, and dash'd 
Unopen'd at her feet: a tide of tierce 
Invective seem'd to wait behind lier lips. 
As wa'ts a river level with the dam 
Ready to burst and flood the world with foam ; 
And so she would have spoken, but there rose 
A hubbub in the court of half the maids 
Gather'd together: from the illumined hall 
Long lanes of splendor slanted o'er a press 
Of snowy shoulders, thick as herded ewes, 
And rainbow robes, and gems and gem-like eyes, 
And gold and golden heads ; they to and fro 
Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some red, some pale, 
All open-mouth'd, all gazing to the light, 
Some crying there was an army in the land. 
And some that men were in the very walls. 
And some they cared not; till a clamor grew 
As of a new-world Babel, woman-built. 
And worse confounded: high above them stood 
The placid marble Muses, looking peace. 

Not peace she look'd, the Read : but rising up 
Robed in the long night of her deep hair, so 
To the open window moved, remaining there 
Fixt like a beacon-tower above the waves 
Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling eye 
Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the light 
Dash themselves dead. She stretch'd her arms and 

call'd 
Across the tumult and the tumult fell. 

"What fear ye brawlers? am not I your Head' 
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks : / dare 
All these male thunderbolts: what is it ye fear? 
Peace ! there are those to avenge us and they come; 
If not, — myself were like enough, O girls. 
To unfurl tlie maiden banner of our rights, 
And clad in iron burst the ranks of war, 
Or, falling, protomartyr of our cause. 
Die : yet I blame ye not so much for fear ; 
Six thousand years of fear have made ye that 
From which I would redeem ye : but for those 
That stir this hubbub— you and you— I know 
Your faces there in the crowd — to-morrow morn 
We hold a great convention : then sljall they 
That love their voices more than duty, learn 
With whom they deal, dismlss'd in shame to live 
No wiser than their mother?, household stuff". 
Live chattels, mincers of each other's fame. 
Full of weak poison, turnspits for the clown, 
The drunkard's football, laughing-stocks of Time, 
Whose brauis are in their hands and in their heels. 
But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to thrum, 
To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and to scour. 
Forever slaves at nome and fools abroad." 

She, ending, waved her hands: thereat the crowd 
Muttering dissolved: then with a smile, that look d 
A stroke of cruel sunshine on the clift", 
When all the glens are drown'd in aznre gloom 
Of thunder-shower, she floated to us and said : 

"You have done well and like a gentleman. 
And like a prince: you have our thanks for a!i: 
And you look well too in your woman's dress: 
Well have you done and like a gentleman. 
You saved our life: we owe you bitt«r thanks: 
Better have died and spilt our bones in the flood- 
Then men had said— but now— What hinders me 



THE PRINCESS : A MEDLEY. 



9.") 



To take such bloody vengeance on you both ?— 
Yet since our father— Wasps iu our good hive, 
You would-be quenchers of the light to be, 
Barbarians, grosser than your native bears — 

would I had his sceptre for one hour ! 

You that have dared to break our bound, and guli'd 
Our servants, wrong'd and lied and thwarted us — 
/ wed with thee ! / bound by precontract 
Your bride, your bondslave ! not tho' all the gold 
That veins "the world were pack'd to make your 

crown. 
And every spoken tongue should lord you. Sir, 
Your falsehood and yourself are hateful to us: 

1 trample on your oft'ers and on yon : 
Begone: we will not look upon you more. 
Here, push them out at gates." 

In wrath she spake. 
Then those eight mighty daughters of the plough 
Bent their broad faces toward us and address'd 
Their motion : twice I sought to plead my cause, 
But on my shoulder hung their heavy hands. 
The weight of destiny : so from her face 
They push'd us, down the steps, and thro' the court. 
And with grim laughter thrust us out at gates. 

We cross'd the street and gain'd a petty mound 
Beyond it, whence we saw the lights and heard 
The voices murmuring. While I listeu'd, came 
On a sudden tlie weird seizure and the doubt : 
I seeni'd to move among a world of ghosts ; 
The Princess with her monstrous woman-guard. 
The jest and earnest working side by side. 
The cataract and the tumult and the kings 
Were shadows ; and the long fantastic night 
With all its doings had and had not been, 
And all things were and were not. 

This went by 
As strangely as it came, and on my spirits 
Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy ; 
Not long; I shook it off; for spite of doubts 
And sudden ghostly shadowings I was one 
To whom the touch of all mischance but came 
As night to him that sitting on a hill 
Sees the midrsummer, midnight, Norway sun 
Set into sunrise : then we moved away. 



Thy vo'co is heard thro' rolling drums. 

That beat to battle where he stands; 
Thy face across his fancy comes. 

And gives the battle to his hands : 
A moment, while the trumpets blow. 

He sees his brood about thy knee ; 
The next, like lire he meets the foe. 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 

So Lilia sang : we thought her half-possess'd, 
She struck such warbling fury thro' the words; 
And, after, feigning pique at what she call'd 
The raillery, or grotesque, or false sublime — 
Like one that wishes at a dance to change 
The music — clapt her hands and cried for war, 
Or some grand fight to kill and make an end : 
And he that next inherited the tale 
Half turning to the broken statue said, 
•' Sir Ralph has got your colors : if I prove 
Your knight, and light your battle, what for me ?" 
It chanced, her empty glove upon the tomb 
Lay by her like a model of her hand. 
She took it and she flung it. "Fight," she said, 
" And make us all we would be, great and good." 
He knightlike in his cap instead of casque, 
A cap of Tyrol borrow'd from the hall, 
Arranged the favor, and assumed the Prince. 



Now, scarce three paces measured from the mound. 
We stumbled on a stationary voice. 
And " Stand, who goes ?" "Two froc the palace,"!. 
1 



"The second two: they wait," he said, "pass on: 
His Highness wakes:" and one, that clash'd iu arms, 
By glimmering lanes and walls of canvas, led 
Threading the soldier-city, till we heard 
Tlie drowsy folds of our great ensign shake 
From blazon'd lions o'er the imperial tent 
Whispers of war. 

Eutering, the sudden light 
Dazed me half-blind : I stood and seem'd to hear. 
As in a poplar grove when a light wind wakes 
A lisping of the innumerous leaf and dies. 
Each hissing in his neighbor's ear; and then 
A strangled titter, out of which there brake 
On all sides, clamoring etiquette to death. 
Unmeasured mirth ; while now the two old kings 
Began to wag their baldness up and down. 
The fresh young captains flash'd their glittering teeth; 
The huge bush-bearded Barons heaved and blew. 
And slain with laughter roU'd the glided Squire. 

At length my Sire, his rough cheek wet with tears, 
Panted from weary sides, "King, yon arc free 1 
We did but keep you surety for our son. 
If this be he,— or a draggled mawkin, thou, 
That tends her bristled grunters in the sludge:" 
For I was drench'd with ooze, and torn with briers, 
More crumpled than a i)oppy from the sheath, 
And all one rag, dlspriuced from head to heel. 
Then some one sent beneath his vaulted palm 
A whisper'd jest to some one near him "Look, 
He has been among his shadows." "Satan take 
The old women and their shadows ! (thus the King 
Roar'd) make yourself a man to tight with men. 
Go: Cyril told us all." 

As boys that slink 
Prom ferule and the trespass-chiding eye. 
Away we stole, and transient iu a trice 
From what was left of faded woman-slough 
To sheathing splendors and the golden scalo 
Of harness, issued in the sun, that now 
Leapt from the dewy shoulders of the Earth, 
And hit the northern hills. Here Cyril met u?, 
A little shy at first, but by and by 
We twain, with mutual pardon ask'd and given 
For stroke and song, resolder'd peace, whereon 
Follow'd his tale. Amazed he fled away 
Thro' the dark land, and later in the night 
Had come on Psyche weeping: "then we fell 
Into your father's hand, and there she lies, 
But will not speak, nor stir." 

He show'd a tent 
A stone-shot off: we enter'd in, and there 
Among piled arms and rough accoutrements, 
Pitiful sight, wrapt in a soldier's cloak. 
Like some sweet sculpture draped from head to foot, 
And jiush'd by rude hands from its pedestal. 
All her fair length upon the ground she lay : 
And at her head a follower of the camp, 
A charr'd and wrinkled piece of womanhoo'd, 
Sat watching like a watcher by the dead. 

Then Florian knelt, and "Come," he whisper'd to 
her, 
"Lift up your head, sweet sister: lie not thus. 
What have you done, but right ? you could not slay 
Me, nor your prince: look up: be comforted: 
Sweet is it to have done the thing one ought. 
When fall'n in darker ways." And likewise I : 
" Be comforted : have I not lost her too. 
In whose least act abides tlie nameless charm 
That none has else for me ?" She heard, she moved, 
She moan'd, a folded voice; and up she sat. 
And raised the cloak from brows as pale and smooth 
As those that mourn half-shrouded over death 
In deathless marble. " Her," she said, "my friend- 
Parted from her— betray'd her cause and mine- 
Where shall I breathe? why kept ye not your fiithf 
O base and bad 1 what comfort ? none for me ;" 
To whom remorseful Cyril, "Y'et I pray 



96. 



THE PRINCESS : A MEDLEY. 



Take comfort : live, dear lady, for your child !" 
At which she lifted up her voice aud cried. 

"Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah my child. 
My one sweet child, whom I shall see uo more ' 
For now will cruel Ida keep her back ; 
And either she will die for want of care, 
Or sicken with ill usage, when they say 
The child is hers— for every little fault, 
The child is hers ; and they will beat my girl 
Remembering her mother: O my flower! 
Or they will take her, they -will make her hard, 
And she will pass me by iu after-life 
With some cold reverence worse thau were she dead. 
Ill mother that I was to leave her there, 
To lag behind, scared by the cry they made, 
The horror of the shame among them all : 
But I will go and sit beside the doors, 
Aud make a wild petition night aud day, 
Until they hate to hear me lilce a wind 
Wailing forever, till they open to me, 
Aud lay my little blossom at my feet, 
My babe, my sweet Agla'ia, my one child : 
And I will take her up and go my way, 
And satisfy my soul with kissing her : 
Ah! what might that man not deserve of me, 
Who gave me back my child?" "Be comforted," 
Said Cyril, "you shall have it," but again 
She veil'd her 'brows, and prone she sank, and so 
Like tender things that being caught feign death. 
Spoke not, nor slirr'd. 

By this a murmur ran 
Thro' all the camp and inward raced the scouts 
With rumor of Prince Arac hard at hand. 
We left her by the woman, and without 
Found the gray kings at parle : and " Look you," 

cried 
Jily fiither, "that our compact be fultill'd 
You have spoilt this child; she laughs at you aud 

man : 
She wrongs herself, her sex, and me, and him: 
But red-faced war has rods of steel aud tire ; 
She yields, or war." 

Then Gama turn'd to me : 
"We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy time 
With our strange girl; and yet they say that still 
You love her. Give ns, theu, your miud at large : 
How say you, war or not?" 

" Not war, if possible, 

king," I said, "lest from the abuse of war, 
The desecrated shriue, the trampled year. 

The smouldering homestead, and the household flower 
Torn from the lintel — ail the common wrong — 
A smoke go up thro' which I loom to her 
Three times a monster : now she lightens scorn 
At him that mars her plan, but theu would hate 
(And every voice she talk'd with ratify it. 
And every face she look'd on justify it) 
The general foe. More soluble is this knot, 
By gentleness thau war. I want her love. 
What were I nigher this altho' we dash'd 
Your cities into shards with catapults. 
She would not love ; — or brought her chaui'd, a slave, 
The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord. 
Not ever would she love ; but broodiiig turn 
The book of scorn till all my little chance 
Were caught within the record of her wrongs. 
And crush'd to death : aud rather, Sire, than this 

1 would the old god of war himself were dead, 
Forgotten, rusting on bis iron hills. 

Rotting on some wild shore with ribs of wreck. 

Or like an old-world mammoth bulk'd in ice, 

Not to be molten out." 

And roughly spake 

My father, " Tut, you know them not, the girls. 
Soy, when I hear you prate I almost think 
That idiot legend credible. Look you, Sir ! 
Vlan is the hunter ; woman is his game : 



The sleek and shining creatures of the chase, 
We hunt them for the beauty of their skins; 
They love us for it, and we ride them down. 
Wheedling aud siding with them ! Out ! for shame 1 
Boy, there's no rose that's half so dear to them 
As he that does the thing they dare not do. 
Breathing and sounding beauteous battle, comes 
With the air of the trumpet round him, and leaps in 
Among the women, snares them by the score 
Flatter'd aud fluster'd, wins, though dash'd with deatl" 
He reddens what he kisses: thus I won 
Your mother, a good mother, a good wife. 
Worth winning; but this firebrand — gentleness 
To such as her ! if Cyril spake her true, 
To catch a dragon iu a cherry net, 
To trip a tigress with a gossamer, 
Were wisdom to it." 

" Yea, but Sire," I cried, 
"Wild natures need wise curbs. The soldier? No: 
What dares not Ida do that she should prize 
The soldier? I beheld her, when she rose 
The yester-uight, and storming in extremes 
Stood for her cause, and flung defiance down 
Gagelike to man, and had not shunn'd the death, 
No, not the soldier's : yet I hold her, king. 
True woman: but you clash them all in one. 
That have as many differences as we. 
The violet varies from the lily as far 
As oak from elm : one loves the soldier, one 
The silken priest of peace, one this, one that, 
And some unworthily; their sinless faith, 
A maiden moon that sparkles on a st}', 
Glorifying clown and satyr; whence they need 
More breadth of culture: is not Ida right? 
They worth it ? truer to the law within ? 
Severer in the logic of a life? 
Twice as magnetic to gweet influences 
Of earth and heaven? aud she of whom you speak, 
My mother, looks as whole as some serene 
Creation minted in the golden moods 
Of sovereign artists ; not a thought, a touch, 
But pure as lines of green that streak the white 
Of the first snowdrop's inner leaves ; I say, 
Not like the piebald miscellauy, man, 
Bursts of great heart and slips in sensual mire. 
But whole and one: and take them all-in-all. 
Were we ourselves but half as good, as kind, ■ 
As truthful, much that Ida claims as right 
Had ne'er been mooted, but as fr.ankly theirs 
As dues of Nature. To our point: not war: 
Least I lose all." 

"Nay, uay, yon spake but sense," 
Said Gama. " We remember love ourselves 
In our sweet youth ; we did not rate him theu 
This red-hot iron to be shaped with blows. 
You talk almost like Ida: she can talk; 
And there is something in it as you say : 
But you talk kindlier: we esteem you for it.— 
He seems a gracious and a gallant Prince, 
I would he had our daughter: for the rest, 
Our own detention, why the causes weigh'd, 
Fatherly fears— you used us courteously— 
W-i would do mu'h to grrtify youv Prince — 
We pardon it : aud for your ingress here 
Upon the skirt and fringe of our fai;' land. 
You did but come as goblins in the night. 
Nor in the furrow broke the ploughman's head, 
Nor burnt the grange, nor buss'd the milkingmai'l, 
Nor robb'd the farmer of his bowl of cream: 
But let your Prince (our royal word upon it. 
He comes back safe) ride with us to our lines. 
And speak with Arac: Arac's word is thrice 
As ours with Ida: something may be done— 
I know not what— and ours shall see us friends. 
You, likewise, our late guests, if so you will, 
Follow us: who knows? we four may build somf 

plan 
Foursquare to opposition." 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



Here he leach'd 
White hauds of farewell to my sire, who growl'd 
An answer which, half-mufflccl in his beard, 
Let so much out as gave us leave to go. 

Then rode we with the old king across the lawns 
Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings of Spring 
In every bole, a soug on every spray 
Of birds that piped their Valentines, and woke 
Desire in me to infuse my talc of love 
In the old king's ears, who promised help,'and cozed 
All o'er with houey'd answer as we rode; 
And blossom-fragrant slipt the heavy dews 
Gather'd by night and peace, with each light air 
On onr mail'd heads: but other thoughts than Peace 
Burnt in us, when we saw the embattled squares, 
And squadrons of the Prince, trampling the flowers 
With clamor: for among them rose a cry 
As if to greet the king: they made a halt; 
The horses yell'd ; they clash'd their arms ; the drum 
Beat ; merrily-blowing shrill'd the martial fife ; 
And in the blast and bray of the long horu 
And serpent-throated bugle, undulated 
The banner: anon to meet us lightly pranced 
Three captains out ; nor ever had I seen 
Such thews of meu : the midmost and the highest 
Was Arac: all about his motion clung 
The shadow of his sister, as the beam 
Of the East, that play'd upon them, made them glance 
Like those three stars of the airy Giant's zone, 
That glitter burnish'd by the frosty dark ; 
And as the fiery Sirius alters hue, 
And bickers into red and emerald, shone 
Their morions, wash'd with morning, as they came. 

And I that prated peace, when first I heard 
War-music, felt the blind wildbeast of force. 
Whose borne is in the sinews of a man, 
Stir in me as to strike : then took the king 
His three broad sons ; with now a wandering hand 
And now a pointed finger, told them all : 
A common light of smiles at our disguise 
Broke from their lips, and, ere the windy jest 
Had labor'd down within his ample lungs. 
The genial giant, Arac, roll'd himself 
Thrice in the saddle, then burst out in words. 

" Our land invaded, 'sdeath ! and he himself 
Your captive, yet my father wills not war: 
And, 'sdeath! myself, what care I, war or no? 
But then this question of your troth remains : 
And there 's a downright honest meaning in her ; 
She flies too high, she flies too high ! and yet 
She ask'd but space and fairplay for her scheme: 
She prest and prest it on me— I myself. 
What know I of these things? but, life and soul ! 
I thought her half-right talking of her wrongs : 
I say she flies too high, 'sdeath ! what of that ? 
I take her for the flower of womankind, 
And so I often told her, right or wrong. 
And, Prince, she can be sweet to those she loves, 
And, right or wrong, I care not : this is all, 
I stand upon her side : she made me swear it — 
■Sdeath,— and with solemn rites by candlelight — 
Swear by St. something — I forget her name — 
Her that talk'd down the fifty wisest men : 
Sfte was a princess too ; and so I swore. 
Come, this is all ; she will not : waive your claim. 
If not, the foughten field, what else, at once 
Decides it, 'sdeath ! against my father's will." 

I lagg'd in answer loath to render up 
My precontract, and loath by brainless war 
To cleave the rift of diff"erence deeper yet; 
Till one of those two brothers, half aside 
And fingering at the hair about his lip. 
To prick ns on to combat " Like to like ! 
The woman's garment hid the woman's heart." 



A taunt that clench'd his purpose like a blow I 
For fiery-short was Cyril's counter-scoft", 
And sharp I answer'd, touch'd upon the point 
Where idle boys are cowards to their shame, 
"Decide it here: why not? we are three to three.'' 

Then spake the third, "But three to three? no 
more ? 
No more, and in our noble sister's cause ? 
More, more, for honor : every captain waits 
Hungry for honor, angry for his king. 
More, more, some fifty on a side, that each 
May breathe himself, and quick ! by overthrow 
Of these or those, the question settled die." 

"Yea," answer'd I, "for this wild wreath of air. 
This flake of rainbow flying on the highest 
Foam of men's deeds— this honor, if ye will. 
It needs must be for honor if at all: 
Since, what decision ? if we fail, we fail. 
And if we win, we fail : she would not keep 
Her compact." "'Sdeath ! but we will send to her,' 
Said Arac, " worthy reasons why she should 
Bide by this issue: let our missive thro', 
And you shall have her answer by the word.' 

"Boys!" shriek'd the old king, but vaiulier than 
a hen 
To her false daughters in the pool ; for none 
Regarded; neither seem'd there more to say: 
Back rode we to my father's camp, and found 
He thrice had sent a herald to the gates. 
To learn if Ida yet would cede our claim, 
Or by denial flush her babbling wells 
With her own people's life: three times lie went: 
The first, he blew and blew, but none appear'd: 
He batter'd at the doors; none came: the next, 
An awful voice within had warn'd him thence: 
The third, and those eight daughters of the plough 
Came sallying thro' the gates, and caught his hair. 
And so belabor'd him on rib and cheek 
They made him wild : not less one glance he caught 
Thro' open doors of Ida statioii'd there 
Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, firm 
Tho' compass'd by two armies and the noise 
Of arras ; and standing like a stately Pine 
Set in a cataract on an island-crag. 
When storm is on the heights, and right and left 
Suck'd from the dark heart of the long hills roll 
The torrents, dash'd to the vale : and yet her will 
Bred will in me to overcome it or iiill. 

But when I told the king that I was pledged 
To fight in tourney for my bride, he clash'd 
His iron palms together with a cry ; 
Himself would tilt it out among the lads : 
But overborne by all his bearded lords 
With reasons drawn from age and state, perforce 
He yielded, wroth and red, with fierce demur: 
And many a bold knight started up in heat, 
And sware to combat for my claim till death. 

All on this side the palace ran the field 
Plat to the garden wall : and likewise here. 
Above the garden's glowing blossom-belts, 
A columu'd entry shone and marble stairs. 
And great bronze valves, emboss'd with Tomyris 
And what she did to Cyrus after fight, 
But now fast barr'd : so here upon the flat 
All that long morn the lists were hammer'd up. 
And all that morn the heralds to and fro. 
With message and defiance, went and came ; 
Last, Ida's answer, in a royal liand. 
But shaken here and there, and rolling words 
Oration-like. I kiss'd it and I read. 

" O brother, you have known the pangs we felt, 
What heats of indignation when we heard 



98 



THE PEmCESS: A MEDLEY. 



Of those that irou-cramp'd their women's feet ; 

Of lands in which at the altar the poor bride 

Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift a scourge; 

Of living hearts that crack within the lire 

Where smoulder their dead despots; and of those,— 

Mothers, — that, all prophetic pity, fling 

Their pretty maids in the running flood, and swoops 

The vulture, beak and talon, at the heart 

Made for all noble motion : and I saw 

That equal baseness lived in sleeker times 

With smoother men : the old leaven leaveu'd all : 

Jklillions of throats would bawl for civil rights, 

No woman named: therefore I set my face 

Against all men, and lived but for mine own. 

Far off from men I built a fold for them : 

I stored it full of rich memorial : 

I fenced it round with gallant institutes, 

And biting laws to scare the beasts of pre3'. 

And prosper'd; till a rout of saucy boys 

Brake on us at our books, and marr'd our peace, 

Mask'd like our maids, blustering I know not what 

Of insolence and love, some pretext held 

Of baby troth, invalid, since my will 

Seal'd not the bond— the striplings !— for their sport !— 

I tamed my leopards : shall I not tame these ? 

Or you ? or I ? for since you think me touch'd 

In honor — what, I would not aught of false — 

Is not our cause pure ? and whereas I know 

Your prowess, Arac, and what mother's blood 

You draw from, fight; you failing, I abide 

What end soever: fail you will not. Still 

Take not his life : he risk'd it for my own ; 

Ilis mother lives: yet whatsoe'er you do. 

Fight and fight well ; strike and strike home. O dear 

Brothers, the woman's Angel guards you, you 

The sole men to be mingled with our cause. 

The sole men we shall prize in the after-time. 

Your very armor hallow'd, and j'our statues 

Eear'd, sung to, when this gad-fly brush'd aside. 

We plant a solid foot into the Time, 

And mould a generation strong to move 

With claim on claim from right to right, till she 

Whose name is yoked with children's, know herself; 

And Knowledge in our own land make her free, 

And, ever following those two crowned twins. 

Commerce and conquest, sho^ver the fiery grain 

Of freedom broadcast over all that orbs 

Between the Northern and the Southern morn." 

Then came a postcript dash'd across the rest. 
"See that there be no traitors in your camp: 
We seem a nest of traitors — none to trust : 
Since our arms fail'd— this Egypt plague of men ! 
Almost our maids were better at their homes, 
Thau thus man-girdled here : indeed I think 
Our chiefest comfort is the little child 
Of one unworthy mother ; ^vhich she left : 
She shall not have it back: the child shall grow 
To prize the authentic mother of her mind. 
I took it for an hour in mine own bed 
This morning: there the tender orphan hands 
Felt at my heart, and seem'd to charm from thence 
The wrath I nursed against the world : farewell." 

I ceased; he said: "Stubborn, but she may sit 
Upon a king's right hand in thunder-storms. 
And breed up warriors ! See now, tho' yourself 
Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to sloughs 
That swallow common sense, the spindling king. 
This Gama swamp'd in lazy tolerance. 
When the man wants weight, tlie woman takes it up. 
And topples down the scales ; but this is fixt 
As are the roots of earth and base of all ; 
Man for the field and woman for the hearth ; 
Man for the sword and for the needle she: 
Man with the head and woman wiih the heart: 
Mau to command and woman to obey • 



All else confusion. Look you ! the gray mare 
Is ill to live with, when her whinny shrills 
From tile to scullery, and her small goodman 
Shrinks in his arm-chair while the fires of Hell 
Mix with his hearth: but you — she's yet a colt- 
Take, break her: strongly groom'd and straitly curb'd 
She miglit not rank with those detestable 
That let the bantling scald at home, and brawl 
Their rights or wrongs like potherbs in the street. 
They say she's comely ; there's the fairer chance : 
/ like her none the less for rating at her I 
Besides, the woman wed is not as we. 
But suflers change of frame. A lusty brace 
Of twins may weed her of her folly. Boy, 
The bearing and the training of a child 
Is woman's wisdom." 

Thus the hard old king: 
I took my leave, for it was nearly noon : 
I pored upon her letter which I held. 
And on the little clause "take not his life:" 
I mused on that wild morning in the woods. 
And on the "Follow, follow, thou shalt win:" 
I thought on all the wrathful king had said. 
And how the strange betrothment was to end: 
Then I remember'd that burnt sorcerer's curse 
That one should fight with shadows and should fall; 
And like a flash the weird aft'ection came: 
King, camp and college turn'd to hollow shows ; 
I seem'd to move in old memorial tilts. 
And doing battle with forgotten ghosts, 
To dream myself the shadow of a dream: 
And ere I woke it was the point of noon, 
The lists were read}'. Empanoplied and plumed 
We enter'd in, and waited, fifty there 
Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet blared 
At the barrier like a wild horn in a laud 
Of echoes, and a moment, and once more 
The trumpet, and again : at which the storm 
Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of spears 
And riders front to front, until they closed 
In conflict with the crash of shivering points. 
And thunder. Yet it seem'd a dream ; I dream'd 
Of flghting. On his haunches rose the steed. 
And into fiery splinters leapt the lance, 
And out of stricken helmets sprang the fire. 
A noble dream ! what was it else I saw ? 
Part sat like rocks ; part reel'd but kept their seats 
Part roird on the earth and rose again and drew: 
Part stumbled mixt with floundering horses. Dowd 
From those two bulks at Arac's side, and down 
From Arac's arm, as from a giant's flail. 
The large blows rain'd, as here and everywhere 
lie rode the mellay, lord of the ringing lists, 
And all the plain— brand, mace, and shaft, and 

shield — 
Shock'd, like an iron-clanging anvil bang'd 
With hammers ; till I thought, can this be he 
From Gama's dwarfish loins? if this be so, 
The mother makes us most — and in my dream 
I glanced aside, and saw the palace-front 
Alive with fluttering scarfs and ladies' eyes, 
And highest, among the statues, statue-like, 
Between a cymbal'd Miriam and a Jael, 
With Psyche's babe, was Ida watching us, 
A single band of gold about her hair. 
Like a Saint's glory up in heaven: but she 
No saint — inexorable — no tenderness — 
Too hard, too cruel : yet she sees me fight. 
Yea, let her see me fall ! with that I drave 
Among the thickest and bore down a Prince, 
And Cyril, one. Yea, let me make my dream 
All that I would. But that large-monlded man, 
His visage all agrin as at a wake. 
Made at me thro' the press, and, staggering back 
With stroke on stroke the horse and horseman, came 
As comes a pillar of electric cloud. 
Flaying the roofs and sucking up the drains, 
And shadowiui: down the champaign till it strikes 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



99 



Ou a wood, aud takes, and breaks, aud cracks, and 

splits. 
And twists the grain with such a roar that Earth 
Reels, and the herdsmen cry ; for everything 
Gave way before him : only Florian, he 
That loved me closer than his own right eye. 
Thrust in between ; but Arac rode him down : 
And Cyril seeing it, push'd against the Prince, 
With Psyche's color round his helmet, tough, 
Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at arms ; 
But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that smote 
And threw him : last I spurr'd ; I felt my veins 
Stretch with tierce heat ; a moment hand to hand, 
And sword to sword, and horse to horse we hung, 
Till I struck out and shouted ; the blade glanced ; 
I did but shear a feather, aud dream aud truth 
Flow'd from me ; darkness closed me ; aud I fell. 



Home they brought her warrior dead: 
She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: 

All her maidens, watching, said, 
"She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 

Call'd him worthy to be loved. 
Truest friend aud noblest foe ; 

Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place. 

Lightly to the warrior stept. 
Took the face-cloth from the face ; 

Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years. 

Set his child upon her knee — 
Like summer tempest came her tears — 

" Sweet my child, 1 live for thee." 

VI. 

My dream had never died or lived again. 
As in some mystic middle state I ]ay 
Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard : 
Tho', if I saw not, yet they told me all 
So often that I spake as having seen. 

For so It seem'd, or so they said to me. 
That all things grew more tragic and more strange; 
That when our side was vanquish'd and my cause 
Forever lost, there weut up a great cry. 
The Prince is slain. My father heard and ran 
In on the lists, and there unlaced my casque 
Aud grovell'd ou my body, and after him 
Came Psyche, sorrowing for Aglaia. 

But high upon the palace Ida stood 
With Psyche's babe in arm : there on the roofs 
Like that great dame of Lapidoth she sang. 

"Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n ; the seed 
The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark. 
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk 
Of spanless girth, that lays on every side 
A thousand arms and rushes to the Sun. 

"Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'u : they came: 
The leaves were wet with womeu's tears : they heard 
A noise of songs they would not understand : 
They mark'd it with the red cross to the fall. 
And would have strown it, and are fall'n themselves. 

" Our enomies have fall'n, have fall'n : they came. 
The woodmen with their axes : lo the tree ! 
But we will make it fagots for the hearth. 
And shape it plank and beam for roof and floor. 
And boats and bridges for the use of meu. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n : they struck ; 
With their own blows they hurt themselves, nor 
knew 



There dwelt an iron nature in the grain : 
The glittering axe was broken in their arms. 
Their arms were shatter'd to the shoulder blade. 

" Our enemies have fall'n, but this shall grow 
A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth 
Of Autumn, drojiping fruits of power ; aud rolTd 
With music iu the growing breeze of Time, 
The tops shall strike from star to star, the fangs 
Shall move the stony bases of the world. 

"And now, O maids, behold our sanctuary 
Is violate, our laws broken : fear we not 
To break them more in their behoof, whose arms 
Champion'd our cause and wou it with a day 
Blanch'd in our annals, and perpetual feast. 
When dames and heroines of the golden year 
Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of Spring, 
To rain an April of ovation round 
Their statues, borne aloft, the three : but come, 
We will be liberal, since our rights are won. 
Let them not lie in the tents with coarse maukiud, 
III nurses; but descend, and proffer these 
The brethren of our blood and cause, that there 
Lie bruised and maim'd, the tender ministries 
Of female hands and hospitality." 

She spoke, and with the babe yet in her arms, 
Descending, burst the great bronze valves, and led 
A hundred maids iu traiu across the Park. 
Some cowl'd, and some bare-headed, on they came. 
Their feet in flowers, her loveliest : by them weut 
The enamor'd air sighiug, and on their curls 
From the high tree the blossom wavering fell. 
And over them the tremulous isles of light, 
Slided, they moving under shade : but Blauche 
At distance follow'd : so they came : anon 
Thro' open field into the lists they wound 
Timorously ; and as the leader of the herd 
That holds a stately fretwork to the Sun, 
And follow'd up by a hundred airy does, 
Steps with a tender foot, light as ou air. 
The lovel}', lordly creature floated on 
To where her wounded brethren lay ; there stay'd ; 
Knelt on one knee, — the child ou one, — and prest 
Their hands, aud calPd them dear deliverers. 
And happy warriors and immortal names, 
Aud said, "You shall not lie in the tents but here. 
And nursed by those for whom you fought, and 

served 
With female hands and hospitality." 

Then, whether moved by this, or was it chancf. 
She past my way. Up started from my side 
The old lion, glaring with his whelpless eye, 
Silent ; but when she saw me lying stark, 
Dishelm'd aud mute, aud motionlessly pale, 
Cold ev'n to her, she sigh'd ; and when she saw 
The haggard father's face aud reverend beard 
Of grisly twine, all dabbled with the blood 
Of his own sou, shudder'd, a twitch of pain 
Tortured her month, and o'er her forehead past 
A shadow, aud her hue changed, aud she said: 
"He saved my life: my brother slew him for it." 
No more: at which the king in bitter scorn 
Drew from my neck the painting and the tress, 
And held them up : she saw them, and a day 
Rose from the distance ou her memory. 
When the good Queen, her mother, shore the tress 
With kisses, ere the days of Lady Blanche : 
And then once more she look'd at my pale face ; 
Till understanding all the foolish work 
Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all. 
Her iron will was broken in her mind ; 
Her noble heart was molten in her breast ; 
She bow'd, she set the child ou the earth : she laid 
A feeling linger on my brows, and presently 



100 



THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY. 



"O Sire," she said, "he lives-, he is uot dead: 
O let me have him with my hrethren here 
lu our owu palace : we will tend on him 
Like one of these ; if so, by any means. 
To lighten this great clog of thanks, that make 
Our progress falter to the woman's goal." 

She said : hut at the happy word " he lives," 
My father stoop'd, rc-father'd o'er my wounds. 
So those two foes above my fallen life. 
With brow to brow like night and evening mixt 
Their dark and graj', while Psyche ever stole 
A little nearer, till the babe that by us, 
Half-lapt in glowing gauze and golden brede, 
Lay like a new-fall'n meteor on the grass, 
Uncared for, spied its mother and began 
A blind and babbling laughter, and to dance 
Its body, and reach its falling innocent arms 
And lazy lingering fingers. She the appeal 
Brook'd not, but clamoring out "Mine— mine— not 

yours. 
It is not yours, bnt mine : give me the child," 
Ceased all on tremble: piteous was the cry: 
So stood the unhappy mother open-mouth'd. 
And turn'd each face her way: wan was her cheek 
With hollow watch, her blooming mantle torn. 
Red grief and mother's hunger in her eye. 
And down dead-heavy sank her curls, and half 
The sacred mother's bosom, panting, burst 
The laces toward her babe ; but she nor cared 
Nor knew it, clamoring on, till Ida heard, 
Look'd up, and rising slowly from me, stood 
Erect and silent, striking with her glance 
The mother, me, the child ; but he that lay 
Beside us, Cyril, batter'd as he was, 
Trail'd himself up on one knee: then he drew 
Her robe to meet his lips, and down she look'd 
At the arm'd man sideways, pitying, as it seera'd, 
Or self-involved ; but when she learnt his face, 
Remembering his ill-onien'd song, arose 
Once more thro' all her height, and o'er him grew 
Tall as a figure lengthen'd on the sand 
When the tide ebbs in sunshine, and he said: 

"O fair and strong and terrible! Lioness 
That with your long locks play the Lion's mane ! 
But Love and Nature, these are two more terrible 
And stronger. See, your foot is on our necks, 
We vanquish'd, you the Victor of your will. 
What would you more ? give her the child ! remain 
Orb'd in your isolation : he is dead. 
Or all as dead : henceforth we let you be : 
Win you the hearts of women ; and beware 
Lest, where you seek the common love of these, 
The conimou hate with the revolving wheel 
Should drag you down, and some great Nemesis 
Bre«k from a darken'd future, crown'd with fire, 
And tread you out forever : but howsoe'er 
Fix'd in yourself, never iu your own arras 
To hold your own, deny not hers to her, 
Give her the child ! O if, I say, you keep 
One pulse that beats true woman, if you loved 
The breast that fed or arm that dandled you. 
Or own one part of sense not flint to prayer, 
Give her the child ! or if you scorn to lay it. 
Yourself, in hands so lately claspt with yours, 
Or speak to her, your dearest, her one fault 
The tenderness, not yours, that could uot kill, 
Give me it; I will give it her." 

He said: 
At first her eye with slow dilation roH'd 
Dry flame, she listening: after sank and sank 
And, into mournful twilight mellowing, dwelt 
Full on the child; she took it: "Pretty bud! 
Lily of the vale: half-opcn'd bell of the woods! 
Sole comfort of my dark hour, when a world 
Of traitorous friend and broken system made 
No purple in the distance, mystery. 



Pledge of a love not to be mine, farewell ; 
These men are hard upon us as of old, 
We two must part: and yet how fain was I 
To dream thy cause embraced in mine, to think 
I might be something to thee, when I felt 
Thy helpless warmth about my barren breast 
In the dead prime: but may thy mother prove 
As true to thee as false, false, false to me ! 
And, if thou needs must bear the yoke, I wish it 
Gentle as freedom "—here she kissed it : then— 
" All good go with thee ! take it. Sir," and so 
Laid the soft babe iu his hard-mailed hands. 
Who turn'd half-round to Psyche as she sprang 
To meet it, with an eye that swum in thanks ; 
Then felt it sound and whole from head to foot. 
And hugg'd and never hugg'd it close enough, 
And iu her hunger mouth'd and mumbled it, 
And hid her bosom with it; after that 
Put on. more calm and added suppliantly: 

" We two were friends : I go to mine own land 
Forever: find some other: as for me 
I scarce am fit for your great plans : yet speal 

to me, 
Say one soft word and let me part forgiven." 

But Ida spoke not, rapt upon the child. 
Then Arac. " Ida— 'sdeath ! you blame the man; 
You wrong yourselves— the woman is so hard 
Upon the woman. Come, a grace to me ! 
I am your warrior ; I and mine have fought 
Your battle: kiss her; take her hand, she weeps: 
'Sdeath ! I would sooner fight thrice o'er than see it." 

But Ida spoke not, gazing on the ground. 
And reddening in the furrows of his chin. 
And moved beyond his custom, Gana said: 

" I've heard that there is iron in the blood, 
And I believe it. Not one word? not one? 
Whence drew you this steel temper ? not from me, 
Not from your mother now a saint with saints. 
She said you had a heart — I heard her say it — 
'Our Ida has a heart'— just ere she died— 
' But see that some one with authority 
Be near her still,' and I — I sought for one — 
All people said she had authority— 
The Iiady Blanche : much profit ! Not one word ; 
No ! tho' yoiir father sues : see how you stand 
Stiff" as Lot's wife, and all the good knights maim'd, 
I trust that there is no one hurt to death, 
For your wild whim : and was it then for this. 
Was it for this we gave our palace up. 
Where we withdrew from summer heats and state, 
And had our wine and chess beneath the planes, 
And many a pleasant hour with her that's gone, 
Ere you were born to vex us ? Is it kind f 
Speak to her I say: is this uot she of whom. 
When first she came, all flush'd you said to me 
Now had you got a friend of your own age. 
Now could you share your thought ; now should 

men see 
Two women faster welded in one love 
Than pairs of wedlock; she you walk'd with, she 
You talk'd with, whole nights long, up in the tower, 
Of sine and arc, splieroid and azinnilh, 
And right ascension. Heaven knows what ; and now 
A word, but one, one little kindly word, 
Not one to spare her: out nppn you, flint! 
You love nor her, nor me, nor any ; nay. 
You shame your mother's judgment too. Not one? 
You will uot ? well— no heart have you, or such 
As fancies like the vermin in a nut 
Have fretted all to dust and bitterness." 
So said the small king moved beyond his wont. 

Bnt Ida stood nor spoke, drain'd of her force 
By many a varying influence and so long. 



THE PRINCESS : A MEDLEY. 



101 



Down thro' her limbs a drooping languor wept: 

Her head a little bent; and on her mouth 

A doubtful smile dwelt like a clouded moon 

In a still water : then brake out my sire 

Lifting his grim head from my wounds. "O you, 

Woman, whom we thought woman even now. 

And were half fool'd to let you tend our sou, 

Because he might have wish'd it — but we see 

The accomplice of your madness unforgiven, 

Aud thiuk that you might mix his draught with 

death. 
When your skies change again : the rougher hand 
Is safer: ou to the tents: take up the Prince." 

He rose, and while each ear was prick'd to attend 
A tempest, thro' the cloud that dinun'd her broke 
A genial warmth and light once more, and shoue 
Thro' glittering drops on her sad friend. 

"Come hither, 

Psyche," she cried out, "embrace me, come. 
Quick while I melt; make a reconcilement sure 
With one that cannot keep her mind an hour: 
Come to the hollow heart they slander so ! 
Kiss and be friends, like children being chid ! 
/seem no more- / want forgiveness too: 

1 should have had to do with none but maids. 
That have no links with men. Ah false but dear. 
Dear traitor, too much loved, why? — why? Yet see 
Before these kings we embrace you yet once more 
With all forgiveness, all oblivion, 

Aud trust, not love, you less. 

Aud now, O Sire, 
Grant me your sou, to nurse, to wait upou him. 
Like mine own brother. For my debt to him. 
This nightmare weight of gratitude, I know it ; 
Taunt me no more: yourself and yours shall have 
Free adit ; we will scatter all our maids 
Till happier times each to her proper hearth : 
What use to keep them here now? grant my prayer. 
Help, father, brother, help; speak to the kiii-g: 
Thaw this male nature to some touch of that 
Which kills me with myself, and drags me down 
From my fixt height to mob me up with all 
The soft and milky rabble of womankind, 
Poor weakling ev'n as they are." 

Passionate tears 
Follow'd : the king replied not : Cyril said : 
"Your brother. Lady, — Floriau,— ask for him 
Of your great head — for he is wounded too — 
That you may tend upou him with the prince." 
"Ay so," said Ida with a bitter smile, 
"Our laws are broken: let him enter too." 
Then Violet, she that sang the mournful song, 
And had a cousin tumbled on the plain, 
Petitiou'd too for him. " Ay so," she said, 
"I stagger in the stream: I cannot !:eep 
My heart an eddy from the brawling hour: 
We break our laws with ease, but let it be." 
"Ay so?" said Blanche: "Amazed am I to hear 
Your Highness : but your Highness breaks with ease 
The law your Highness did not make : 'twas I. 
I had been wedded wife, I knew mankind. 
And block'd them out ; but these men came to woo 
Your Highuess— verily I think to win." 

So she, and turn'd askance a wintry eye : 
But Ida with a voice, that like a bell 
ToU'd by an earthquake in a trembling tower, 
Rang ruin, auswer'd full of grief and scorn. 

"Fling our doors wide! all, all, not one, but all, 
Not only he, but by my mother's soul. 
Whatever man lies wounded, friend or foe, 
Shall enter, if he will. Let our girls flit. 
Till the storm die ! but had ycu stood by us, 
The roar that breaks the Pharos from his base 
Had ioft us rock. She fain would sting us too, 



But shall not. Pass, and mingle with your likes. 
We brook no further insult but are gone." 

She turn'd; the very nape of her white neck 
Was rosed with indignation : but the Prince 
Her brother came; the king her father tharm'd 
Her wounded soul with words: nor did mine own 
Refuse her proffer, lastly gave his hand. 

Then us they lifted up, dead weights, and bare 
Straight to the doors: to them the doors gave waj 
Groaning, and in the Vestal entry shriek'd 
The virgin marble under iron heels: 
And on they moved aud gain'd the hall, and there 
Rested: but great the crush was, and each base. 
To left and right, of those tall columns drowu'd 
In silken fluctuation aud the swarm 
Of female whisperers: at the further end 
Was Ida by the throne, the two groat cats 
Close by her, like supporters on a shield, 
Bow-back'd with fear : but in the ceutre stood 
The common men with rolling eyes ; amazed 
They glared upou the women, and aghast 
The women stared at these, all silent, save 
Wheu armor clash'd or jingled, while the day. 
Descending, struck athwart the hall, and shot 
A flying splendor out of brass and steel. 
That o'er the statues leapt from head to head, 
Now fired an angry Pallas ou the helm, 
Now set a wrathful Dian's moon on llame, 
And now and then an echo started up. 
And shuddering fled from room to room, and died 
Of fright in fur apartments. 

Then the voice 
Of Ida sounded, issuing ordinance : 
And me they 1)ore up the broad stairs, and thro' 
The long-laid galleries past a hundred doors 
To one deep chamber shut from sound, and due 
To languid limbs and sickness ; left me in it; 
Aud others otherwhere they laid ; aud all 
That afternoon a sound arose of hoof 
And chariot, many a maiden passing home 
Till happier times ; but some were left of those 
Held sagest, and the great lords out and in, 
Prom those two hosts that lay beside the walls, 
Walk'd at their will, and everything was changed. 



Ask me no more : the moon may draw the sea ; 
TUfe cloud may stoop from heaven aud take the 

shape. 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 
But O too fond, when have I auswer'd thee? 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more: what answer should I give? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die ! 

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 
Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd: 
I strove against the stream and all in vain: 
Let the great river take me to the main: 

No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
Ask me no more. 

VIL 

So was their sanc;tnary violated. 

So their fair college turn'd to hospital; 

At first with all confusion: by and by 

Sweet order lived again with other laws : 

A kindlier influence reign'd ; and everywhere 

Low voices with the ministering hand 

Hung round the sick : the maidens came, they talk'd, 

They sang, they read : till she not fair, began 

To gather light, and she that was, became 

Her former beauty treble ; and to and fro 



102 



THE PllINCESS : A MEDLEY. 



With books, with flowers, with Augel offices, 
Lilie creatures untive uuto gracious act, 
Aud iu their owu clear element, they moved. 

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell, 
And hatred of her weakness, bleut with shame. 
Old studies fail'd ; seldom she spoke ; but oft 
Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone for hours 
On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of men 
Darkening her female field : void was her use ; 
And she as one that climbs a peak to gaze 
O'er land and main, aud sees a great black cloud 
Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of night, 
Blot out the slope of sea from verge to shore, 
And suck the blinding splendor from the sand. 
And quenching lake by lake and tarn by taru 
Expunge the w'orld: so fared she gazing there; 
So blacken'd all her world in secret, blank 
Aud waste it seem'd and vain ; till dawn she came, 
Aud found fair peace ouce more among the sick. 

And twilight dawn'd ; aud morn by morn the lark 
Shot up and shrill'd in flickering gyres, but I 
Lay silent in the muffled cage of life: 
Aud twilight gloom'd ; and broader-grown the bowers 
Drew the great night into themselves, aud Ileaven, 
Star after star, arose and fell; but I, 
Deeper than those weird doubts could reach me, lay 
Quite sunder'd from the moving Universe, 
Nor knew what eye was on me, nor the hand 
That nursed me, more than infants iu their sleep. 

But Psyche tended Florian : with her oft 
Melissa came ; for Blanche had gone, but left 
Her child among us, willing she should keep 
Court-favor: here aud there the small bright head, 
A light of healing glanced about the couch, 
Or thro' the parted silks the tender face 
Peep'd, shining in upon the wounded man 
With blush aud smile, a medicine iu themselves 
To wile the length from lauguorous hours, and draw 
The sting from pain ; nor seem'd it strauge that soon 
He rose up whole, and those fair charities 
Join'd at her side; nor stranger seem'd that hearts 
So gentle, so employ'd, should close in love, 
Than when two dew-drojis on the petal shake 
To the same sweet air, aud tremble deeper down. 
And slip at ouce all-fragrant into oue. 

Less prosperously the second suit obtain'd c 
At first with Psyche. Not though Blanche had sworn 
That after that dark night among the fields. 
She needs must wed him for her own good uame ; 
Not tho' he built upon the babe restored ; 
Nor tho' she liked him, yielded she, but fear'd 
To incense the Head once more ; till on a day 
When Cyril pleaded, Ida came behind 
Seen but of Psyche : on her foot she hung 
A moment, and she heard, at which her face 
A little flush'd, and she past ou ; but each 
Assumed from thence, a half-consent involved 
Iu stillness, plighted troth, and were at peace. 

Nor only these : Love in the sacred halls 
Held carnival at will, and flying struck 
With showers of random sweet on maid aud man. 
Nor did her father cease to press my claim. 
Nor did mine own now reconciled; uor yet 
Did those twin brothers, risen again and whole ; 
Nor Arac, satiate with his victory. 

But I lay still, and with me oft she sat: 
Then came a change; for sometimes I would catch 
Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it hard, 
And fling it like a viper off, and shriek 
" Yon are not Ida ;" clasp it once again, 
And call her Ida, tho' I knew her uot, 
Aud call her sweet, as if in iixiiiy. 



Aud call her hard aud cold which seem'd a truth : 

And still she fear'd that I should lose my mind. 

And ofteu she believed that I should die: 

Till out of long frustration of her care, 

Aud pensive tendance in the all-weary noons, 

And watches in the dead, the dark, when clocks 

Throbb'd thunder thro' the palace floors, or call'd 

On flying Time from all their silver tongues — 

And out of memories of her kindlier days, 

Aud sidelong glances at my father's grief, 

Aud at the happy lovers heart iu heart — 

And out of hauutings of my sjjoken love. 

And lonely lisceuiugs to my multer'd dream. 

And often feeling of the helpless hands. 

And wordless broodiugs on the wasted cheek— 

From all a closer interest flourish'd up. 

Tenderness touch by touch, and last, to these. 

Love, like an Alpine harebell hung with tears 

By some cold morning glacier; frail at first 

And feeble, all unconscious of itself. 

But such as gather'd color day by day. 

Last I woke sane, but welluigh close te death 
For weakness: it was evening: silent light 
Slept ou the painted walls, wherein were wrought 
Two grand designs: for ou oue side arose 
The women up in wild revolt, and storm'd 
At the Oppian law. Titanic shapes, they cramm'd 
The forum, and half-crush'd among the rest 
A dwarflike Cato cower'd. On the other side 
Horteusia spoke against the tax ; behind^ 
A train of dames : by axe and eagle sat. 
With all their foreheads drawn in Roman scowls, 
Aud half the wolPs-millc curdled iu their veins. 
The fierce triumvirs; and before them paused 
Horteusia, pleading: angry wiis her face. 

I saw the forms : I kne^y not where I wass 
They did but seem as hollow shows; nor more 
Sweet Ida: palm to palm she sat: the dew 
Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her shape 
And rounder show'd: I moved: I sigh'd: a touch 
Came round my wrist, and tears upon my hand: 
Then all for languor and self-pity ran 
Mine down my face, and with what life I had. 
And like a flower that cannot all unfold. 
So drench'd it is with tempest, to the sun, 
Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I ou her 
Fist my faint eyes, aud utter'd wdiisperiugly ; 

" If you be, what I think you, some sweet dream, 
I would but ask you to fulfil yourself: 
But if you be that Ida whom I knew, 
I ask you nothing : only, if a dream. 
Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die to-night. 
Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere 1 die." 

I could no moi-e, but lay like one in trance. 
That hears his burial talk'd of by his frieuds. 
And cannot speak, nor move, uor make one sign. 
But lies and dreads his doom. She turn'd; she 

paused ; 
She stoop'd; and out of languor leapt a cry; 
Leapt fiery Passion from the brinks of death •, 
And I believed that iu the living world 
My spirit closed with Ida's at the lips; 
Till back I fell, aud from mine arms she rose 
Glowing all over noble shame ; and all 
Iler falser self slipt from her like a robe. 
And left her woman, lovelier in her mood 
Thau in her mould that other, when she came 
From barren deeps to conquer all with love: 
Aud down the streaming crystal dropt ; aud she 
Far-fleeted by the purple island-sides. 
Naked, a double light in air aud wave, 
To meet her Graces, where they deck'd her (rat 
For worship without end ; nor end of mine, 
Stateliest, for thee! but mute she glided forth. 



THE PRINCESS : A MEDLEY. 



103 



Nor glanced behind her, and I sank and slept, 
Fill'd thro' and thro' with Love, a happy sleep. 

Deep iu the night I woke: she, near mc, held 
A volume of tlie Poets of her land: 
There to herself, all iu low tones, she read. 

' " Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white ; 
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk ; 
Nor winks the gold fin iu the porphyry font: 
The firefly wakens : waken thou with me. 

"Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, 
Aud like a ghost she glimmers on to me. 

"Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars. 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 

" Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts iu me. 

"Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, 
And slips into the bosom of the lake: 
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
Into my bosom and be lost iu me." 

I heard her tnru the page ; she found a small 
Sweet Idyl, aud ouce more, as low, she read: 

" Come down, O maid, from yonder monutaiu 
height : 
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang), 
In height aud cold, the splendor of the hills? 
But cease to move so near the Heavens, aud cease 
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, 
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire ; 
And come, for Love is of the valley, come. 
For Love is of the valley, come thou down 
And lind him ; by the happy threshold, he. 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, 
Or red with spirted purple of the vats. 
Or foxlike in the vine ; nor cares to walk 
With Death aud Morniug on the Silver Horns, 
Nor wilt thou snare him iu the white ravine. 
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, 
That huddling slant iu furrow-cloven falls 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors: 
But follow ; let the torrent dance thee down 
To find him iu the valley; let the wild 
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave 
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill 
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke. 
That like a broken purpose waste in air : 
So waste not thou ; but come ; for all the vales 
Await thee ; azure pillars of the hearth 
Arise to thee ; the children call, aud I 
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound. 
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; 
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, 
The moan of doves iu immemorial elms, 
Aud murnmriug of iuuumerable bees." 

So she low-toned ; while with shut eyes I lay 
Listening ; then look'd. Pale was the perfect face ; 
The bosom with long sighs labor'd ; and meek 
Soem'd the full lips, and mild the luminous eyes, 
Aud the voice trembled aud the hand. She said 
Brokenly, that she knew it, she had fail'd 
In sweet humility; had fail'd iu all; 
That all her labor was but as a block 
Left in the qiuirry; but she still were ]oftth. 
She still were loath to yield herself to one, 
That wholly scoru'd to help their equal rights 
Against the sons of men, and barbarous laws. 
She pray'd mo not to judge their cause from her 
That wrtmg'd it, sought far less for truth than 

power 
[n knowledge •. something wild wilhiu her brcas-t, 



A greater than all knowledge, beat her down. 
And she had nurs'd mc there from week to week: 
Much had she learnt iu little time. In part 
It was ill counsel had misled the girl 
To vex true hearts : yet was she but a girl — 
"Ah fool, and made myself a Queen of farce 1 
When comes another such ? never, I thiuk 
Till the Sun drop dead from the signs." 

Her voic\5 
Choked, and her forehead sank npon her hands, 
Aud her great heart through all the faultful Past 
Went sorrowing iu a i)ause I dared not break ; 
Till notice of a change iu the dark world 
Was lisp'd about the acacias, and a bird, 
That early woke to feed her little ones, 
Seut from a dewy breast a cry for light; 
She moved, and at her feet the volume fell. 

"Blame uot thyself too much," I said, "nor blame 
Too much the sons of men and barbarous laws ; 
These were the rough ways of the world till now^ 
Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know 
The woman's cause is man's : they rise or sink 
Together, dwarf "d or godlike, bond or free: 
For she that out of Lethe scales with man 
The shining steps of Nature, shares with man 
Ills nights, his days, moves with him to one goal, 
Stays all the fair young planet iu her hands — 
If she be small, slight-uatured, miserable, 
IIow shall men grow ? but work uo more alone 1 
Our place is ninch : as far as iu us lies 
We two will serve them both iu aiding her — 
Will clear away the ])arasitic forms 
That seem to keep her up but drag her down — 
Will leave her siiace to burgeon out of all 
Within her — let her make herself her own 
To give or keep, to live aud learn aud be 
All that uot harms distinctive womanhood. 
For woman is uot uudevelopt man. 
But diverse: could we make her as the man. 
Sweet love were slain : his dearest bond la this, 
Not like to like, but like iu difference. 
Yet iu the long years liker must they grow ; 
The man be more of woman, she of man ; 
He gain iu sweetness and in moral height. 
Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world j 
She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care, 
Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind; 
Till at the last she set herself to mau. 
Like perfect music unto noble words ; 
And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time, 
Sit side by side, full-sumni'd iu all their powers, 
Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, 
Self-revereut each and reverencing each, 
Distinct in individualities. 
But like each other ev'u as those who love. 
Then comes the statelier Eden back to meu : 
Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste aud 

calm : 
Then springs the crowning race of humankind. 
May these things be!" 

Sighiug she spoke, "I fear 
They will not." 

" Dear, but let us type them now 
In our own lives, and this proud watciiword rest 
Of equal ; seeing either sex alone 
Is half itself, aud iu true marriage lies 
Nor equal, nor unequal : each fulfils 
Defect in each, and always thought in thought, 
Purpose in purpose, will iu will, they grow, 
The single pure aud perfect animal. 
The two-eell'd heart beating, with one full stroke. 
Life." 

And again sighing she spoke: "A dream 
That ouce was miue ! what woman taught you this V 

"Alone," I said, "from earlier than I know. 
Immersed iu rich forcshadowings of the world, 



104 



THE PRINCESS : A MEDLEY. 



.1. loved the womau : he, that doth not, lives 

A. drowning life, besotted in sweet self. 

Or pines in sad experience worse than death, 

Or keeps his wing'd affections dipt with crime : 

"Yet was there one thro' whom I loved her, one 

Not learned, save in gracious household ways. 

Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants. 

No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt 

In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 

Interpreter between the Gods and men, 

Who look'd all native to her place, and yet 

On tiptoe seera'd to touch upon a sphere 

Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce 

Sway'd to her from their orbits as they moved, 

And girded her with music. Happy he 

With such a mother ! faith in womankind 

Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high 

Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall 

He shall not blind his soul with clay." 

"But I," 
Said Ida, tremulously, " so all unlike — 
It seems you love to cheat yourself with words : 
This mother is your model. I have heard 
Of your strange doubts : they well might be : I 

seem 
A mockery to my own self. Never, Prince ; 
You cannot love me." 

"Nay but thee," I said, 
"From yearlong poring on thy pictured eyes, 
Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, and saw 
Thee woman thro' the crust of iron moods 
That mask'd thee from mens reverence up, and 

forced 
Sweet ;ove on pranks of saucy boyhood : now, 
Giv'n back to ;ifc, to life indeed, thro' thee, 
Indeed I love ; the new day conies, the light 
Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults 
Lived over: lift thine eyes, my doubts ate dead. 
My haunting sense of hollow shows: the change, 
This truthful change In thee has kili'd it. Dear, 
Ijook up, and let thy nature strike on mine, 
Like yonder morning on the blind half-world ; 
Approach and fear not ; breathe upon my brows ; 
In that fine air I tremble, all the past 
Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and this 
Is morn to more, and all the rich to-come 
Eeels, as the golden Autumn woodland reels 
Athwart the smoke of oiirning weeds. Forgive me. 
I waste my heart in signs : let be. My bride. 
My wife, my life. O we will walk this world. 
Yoked in all exercise of noble end. 
And so thro those dark gates across the wild 
That no man knows. Indeed I love thee : come. 
Yield thyself up- my hojies and thine are one: 
Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself; 
Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me." 



CONCLUSION. 

So closed our tale, of which I give 5'ou all 

The random scheme as wildly as it rose : 

The words are mostly mine ; for when we ceased 

There came it minute's ])ause, and Walter said, 

" I wish she had not yielded !" then to me, 

" What, if you drest it up poetically '." 

So pray'd the men, the women: I gave assent: 

Yet how to bind the scattor'd scheme of seven 

Together in one sheaf? What style conid suit? 

The men required that I should give throughout 

The sort of mock-heroic gigantesqne. 

With which we banter'd little Lilia first : 

The women— and perhaps they felt their povrer, 

For something in the ballads which they sang. 

Or In their silont inilucuce as they sat, 

Had ever seem'd to wrestle with burlesque, 

And drove ns, hast, to quite a solemn close — 

They hated banter, wish'd for something real, 



A gallant fight, a noble princess — why 

Not make her true-heroic— true-sublime ? 

Or all, they said, as earnest as the close ? 

Which yet with such a framework scarce could be 

Then rose a little feud betwixt the two, 

Betwixt the mockers and the realists; 

And I, betwixt them both, to please them both, 

And yet to give the story as it rose, 

I moved as in a strange diagonal. 

And maybe neither pleased myself nor them. 

But Lilia pleased me, for she took no part 
In our dispute : the sequel of the tale 
Had touch'd her ; and she sat, she pluck'd the grass, 
She flung it from her, thinking: last, she fixt 
A showery glance upon her auut, and said, 
" You— tell us what we are " who might have told, 
For she was cramm'd with theories out of books. 
But that there rose a shout : the gates were closed 
At sunset, and the crowd were swarming now, 
To take their leave, about the garden rails. 

So I and some went out to these: we climb'd 
The slope to Vivian-place, and turning saw 
The happy valleys, half in light, and half 
Far-shadowing from the \vest, a land of peace ; 
Gray halls alone among the massive groves; 
Trim hamlets ; here and there a rustic tower 
Half-lost in belts of hop and breadths of wheat ; 
The shimmering glimpses of a stream ; the seas ; 
A red sail, or a white ; and far beyond. 
Imagined more than seen, the skirts of France. 

" Look there, a garden !" said my college friend, 
The Tory member's elder son, " and there ! 
God bless the narrow sea which keeps her off, 
And keeps our Britain, whole within herself, 
A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled— 
Some sense of duty, something of a faith, 
Some reverence for the laws ourselves have made, 
Some patient force to change them when we will, 
Some civic manhood firm against the crowd- 
But yonder, whiff! there comes a sudden heat, 
The gravest citizen seems to lose his head, 
The king is scared, the soldier will not fight. 
The little boys begin to shoot and stab, 
A kingdom topples over with a shriek 
Like an old woman, and down rolls the world 
In mock heroics stranger than our own ; 
Revolts, republics, revolutions, most 
No graver than a school-boys' barring out; 
Too comic for the solemn things they are, 
Too solemn for the comic touches in them, 
Like our wild Princess with as wise a dream 
As some of theirs— God bless the narrow seas ! 
I wish they were a whole Atlantic broad." 

"Have patience," I replied, "ourselves are full 
Of social wrong ; and maybe wildest dreams 
Art but the needful preludes of the truth : 
For me, the genial day, the happy» crowd, 
The sport half-science, fill me with a faith. 
This fine old world of ours is but a child 
Yet in the go-cart. Patience ! Give it time 
To learn its limbs: there is a hand that guides." 

In such discourse we gain'd the garden rails, 
And there we saw Sir Walter where he stood. 
Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks. 
Among six boys, head under head, and look'd 
No little lily-handed Baronet he, 
A great broad-shoulder'd genial Englishman, 
A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, 
A raiser of huge melons and of pine, 
A patron of some thirty charities, 
A pamphleteer on guano and on grain, 
A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none: 



IN MEMORIAM. 



10.-. 



Fair-hair'd and redder than a windy morn: 
Now shaking hands witli him, now him, of those 
That stood the nearest — now address'd to speech — 
Who spoke few words and pithy, such as closed 
Welcome, ftirewell, and welcome for the year 
To follow : a shout rose again, and made 
The long Hue of the approaching rookery swerve 
From the elms, and shook the branches of the deer 
From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, and rang 
Beyond the bouru of sunset ; O, a shout 
More joyful than the city-roar that hails 
Premier or king I Why should not these great Sirs 
Give up their parks some dozen times a year 
To let the people breathe ? So thrice they cried, 
I likewise, and iu groups they stream'd away. 



But we went back to the Abbey, and sat on, 
So much the gathering darkness charm'd: we sat 
But spoke not, rapt in nameless reverie. 
Perchance upon the future man : the walls 
Blackea'd about us, bats vvhecl'd, and owls whoopU 
And gradually the powers of the night. 
That range above the region of the wind, 
Deepening the courts of twilight broke them u)) 
Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds, 
Beyond all thought into the Heaven of Heavens. 

Last little Lilia, rising quietly, 
Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir Ralph 
From those rich silks, and home well-pleased tc 
went. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 
Whom we, that have not seen thy face. 
By faith, and faith alone, embrace. 

Believing where we cannot prove ; 

Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; 

Thou madest life iu man and brute; 

Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 

Thon wilt not leave us in the dust: 
Thou madest man, he knows not why; 
He thinks he was not made to die ; 

And thou hast made him : thou art just. 

Thou seemest human and divine. 
The highest, holiest manhood, thou : 
Our wills are ours, we know not how; 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 

Our little systems have their day ; 
They have their day and cease to be : 
They are but broken lights of thee. 

And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 

We have but faith : we cannot know ; 

For knowledge is of things we see ; 

And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
A beam iu darkness : let it grow. 

Let knowledge grow from more to more, 
But moie of reverence in us dwell ; 
That mind and soul according well. 

May make one music as before, 

But vaster. We are fools and slight ; 
We mock thee when we do not fear: 
But help thy foolish ones to bear; 

lielp thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me; 

What seem'd my worth since I began ; 

For merit lives from man to man. 
And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 

Forgive my grief for one removed, 
Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
I trust he lives in thee, and there 

I flnd him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive these wild and wandering cries, 
Confusions of a wasted youth ; 
Forgive them where they fail in truth, 

And iu thy wisdom make me wise. 
1S49. 



IN MEMORIAM. 
A. H. H. 

OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII. 



I UEr.D it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones, 
That men may rise on stepping-ston'if 

Of their dead selves to higher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years, 
And flnd in loss a gain to match? 
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch 

The far-off interest of tears ? 

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown q, 
Let darkness keep her raven gloss: 
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, 

To dance with death, to beat the ground. 

Than that the victor Hours should scorn 
The long result of love, and boast, 
" Behold the man that loved and lost 

But all he was is overworn." 

IL 

Oi.T) Yew, which graspest at the stones 
That name the underlying dead, 
Thy fibres net the dreamless head. 

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. 

The seasons bring the flower again. 
And bring the firstling to the flock; 
And in the dusk of thee, the clock 

Beats out the little lives of men. 

O not for thee the glow, the bloom, 
Who changest not in any gale. 
Nor branding summer suns avail 

To touch thy thousand years of gloom: 

And gazing on thee, sullen tree. 
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, 
I seem to fail from out my blood 

And grow incorporate into thee. 

in. 

O BORROW, cruel fellowship, 
O Priestess in the vaults of Death, 
O sweet and bitter in a breath, 

What whispers from thy lying lip^ 



106 



IN MEMORIAM. 



"The stars," she whispers, "blindly run; 

A web is wov'ii across the sky; 

From out waste places comes a cry, 
And murmurs from the dying sun; 

"And all the phantom. Nature, stands,— 

With all the music in her tone, 

A hollow echo of my own,— 
A hollow form with empty hands." 

And shall I take a thing so blind, 
Embrace ber as my natural good ; 
Or crush her, like a vice of blood, 

Upon the threshold of the mind ? 

IV. 

To Sleep I give my powers away; 

My will is bondsman to the dark; 

I sit within a hclmless bark. 
And with my heart I muse and say: 

heart, how fares it with thee now, 
That thou shouldst fail from thy desire, 
Who scarcely darest to inquire 

"What is it makes me beat so low?" 

Something it is which thou hast lost. 
Some pleasure from thine early years. 
Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears. 

That grief hath shaken into frost ! 

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross 
All night below the darken'd eyes; 
With moi-ning wakes the will, and cries, 

" Thou Shalt not be the fool of loss." 

V. 

1 SOMETIMES hold it half a sin 

To put in words the grief I feel ; 
For words, like Nature, half reveal 
And half conceal the Soul within. 

But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
A use in measured language lies; 
The sad mechanic exercise, 

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er. 
Like coarsest clothes against the cold , 
But that large grief which these enfold 

Is given in outline and no more. 

VI. 

One writes, that " Other friends remain," 
That "Loss is common to the race," — 
And common is the commonplace. 

And vacant chaff well meant for grain. 

That loss is common would not make 
My own less bitter, rather more: 
Too common! Never morning wore 

To evening, but some heart did break. 

O father, whcresoe'er thou be. 
Who pledgcst now thy gallant son ; 
A shot, ere half thy draught be done, 

Hath still'd the life that beat from thee. 

O mother, praying God will save 
Thy sailor,— while thy head is bow'd. 
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud 

Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 

Ye know no more than I who wrought 
At that last hour to please him well ; 
Who mused on all I had to tell. 

And something written, eomething tho-.ight: 



Expecting still his advent home: 
And ever met him on his way 
With wishes, thinking, here to-day, 

Or here to-morrow will he come. 

O somewhere, meek unconscious dove, 
That sittest ranging golden hair ; 
And giad to find thyself so fair. 

Poor child, that waitest for thy love ! 

For now her father's chimney glows 

In expectation of a guest ; 

And thinking "This will please him best/ 
She takes a riband or a rose; 

For he will see them on to-night ; 

And with the thought her color burns; 

And, having left the glass, she turns 
Once more to set a ringlet right; 

And, ev'n when she turn'd, the curse 
Had fallen, and her future lord 
Was drown' d in passing thro' the ford, 

Or kill'd in falling from his horse. 

O what to her shall be the end? 

And what to me remains of good? 

To her, perpetual maidenhood. 
And unto me no second friend. 

VIL 

Dauk house, by which once more I stand 
Here in the long unlovely street, 
Doors, where my heart was used to beat 

So quickly, waiting for a hand, 

A hand that can be clasp'd no more, — 
Behold me, for I cannot sleep. 
And like a guilty thing I creep 

At earliest morning to the door. 

He is not here ; but far away 
The noise of life begins again. 
And ghastly thro' the drizzling r.ala 

On the bald street breaks the blank ds.y, 

VIII. 

A iiAVPY lover who has come 
To look on her that loves him well, 
WTio 'lights and rings the gateway beU, 

And learns her gone and far from home; 

He saddens, all the magic light 
Dies off at once from bower and ha\,\ 
And all the place is dark, and all 

The chambers emptied of delight : 

So find I every pleasant spot 
In which we two were wont to meet, 
The tield, the chamber, and the street. 

For all is dark where thou art not. 

Yet as that other, wandering there 
In those deserted walks, may find 
A flower beat with rain and wind. 

Which once she foster'd up with care ; 

So seems it in my deep regret, ' 

my forsaken heart, with theo 
And this poor flower of poesy 

Which little cared for fades not ret. 

But since it pleased a vanish'd eye, 

1 go to plant it on his tomb, 
That if it can it there may bloom, 

Or dying, there at least may die. 



IN ]MEMORIA]\t. 



107 



iP^m ship, that from the Italinu shore 
Sailest the phicid oeean-phUns 
With my lost Arthur's loved remains, 

Spread thy full wings, aud waft him o'er. 

So draw him home to those that mouru 
lu vain ; a favorable speed 
Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead 

Thro' prospt-rous floods his holy iiru. 

All niglit no ruder air perplex 
Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright 
As our pure love, thro' eaily light 

Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 

Sphere all your lights around, above ; 

Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; 

Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, 
My friend, the brother of my love ; 

My Arthur, whom I shall not see 
Till all my Avidow'd race be run ; 
Dear as the mother to the sou, 

More than my brothers are to me. 

X. 

I HEAR the noise about thy keel ; 

I hear the bell struck in the night ; 

I see the cabin-window bright ; 
I see the sailor at the wheel. 

Thou bringest the sailor to his wife, 
Aud travelled men from foreign lauds; 
And letters unto trembling hands ; 

Aud, thy dark fi eight, a vanish'd life. 

So bring him: we have id"e dreams: 
This look of quiet flatteis thus 
Our home-bred fancies : O to us, 

The fools of habit^ sweeter seems 

To rest beneath the clover sod. 
That takes the sunshine and the rains, 
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains 

The chalice of the grapes of God ; 

Than if with thee the roaring wells 
Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine ; 
And hands so often clasp'd in mine 

Should toss with langle and with shells. 

XI. 

Calm is the mom without a sound. 

Calm as to suit a calmer grief, 

Aud only thro' the faded leaf 
The chestnut pattering to the ground : 

Calm and deep peace on this high wold 
And on these dews that drench the furze, 
Aud all the silvery gossamers 

That twinkle into green and gold: 

Calm aud still light on yon great plain 
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers. 
And crowded farms and lessening towers. 

To mingle with the bounding main: 

Calm and deep peace in this wide air. 
These leaves that redden to the fall ; 
Aud in my heart, if calm at all. 

If any calm, a calm despair: 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. 
And waves that sway themselves in rest. 
And dead calm in that noble breast 

Which heaves but with the henving deep. 



XII. 

Lo, as a dove when up she springs 
To bear thro' Heaven a tale of woe, 
Some dolorous message knit below 

The wild pulsation of her wings : 

Like her I go ; I cannot stay ; 
I leave this mortal ark behind, 
A weight of nerves without a mind, 

And leave the clifls, and haste away 

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large, 
And reach the glow of southern skies, 
And see the sails at distance rise. 

And linger weeping on the marge. 

And saying, "Comes he thus, my friend' 
Is this the end of all my care?" 
Aud circle moaning in the air : 

"Is this the end? Is this the end?" 

And forward dart again, and play 
About the prow, and back return 
To where the body sits, and learu, 

That I have been an hour away. 

XIII. 

Teaks of the widower, when he sees 
A late-lost form that sleep reveals. 
And moves his doubtful arms, and feeis 

Her place is empty, fall like these • 

Which weep a loss forever new, 
A void where heart on heart reposed ; 
Aud, where warm hands have prest and c]os'( 

Silence, till I be silent too. 

Which weep the comrade of my choice, ' 
An awful tliought, a life removed, 
The humau-hearted man I loved, 

A Spirit, not a breathing voice. 

Come Time, and teach me, many years, 

I do not suffer in a dream ; 

For now so strange do these things seem. 
Mine ej'es have leisure for their tears ; 

My fancies time to rise on wing. 
And glance about the approaching sails. 
As tho' they brought but merchants' bales, 

Aud not the burthen that they bring. 

XIV. 

If one should bring me this report. 
That thou hadst touch'd the laud to-day, 
Aud I went down unto the quay, 

And found thee lying in the port; 

Aud standing, mufHed round with woe. 
Should see thy passengers iu rank 
Come stepping lightly down the plank, 

Aud beckoning unto those they kuow; 

And if along with these should come 

The man I held as half-divine ; 

Should strike a sudden hand in mine, 
Aud ask a thousand things of home ; 

And I should tell him all my pain. 
And how my life had droop'd of late, 
And he should sorrow o'er my state 

Aud marvel what possess'd my brain- 

And I perceived no touch of change, 
No hint of death in all his frame. 
But found him all in all the same, 

I should not feel it to be strange. 



108 



IN MEMORIAM. 



XV. 

To-NTGiiT the winds begin to rife 
And roar from yonder dropping day : 
Ttie last red leaf is whirl'd away, 

The rooks are blown about the skies ; 

The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd, 

The cattle huddled on the lea; 

And wildly dash'd on tower and tree 
The sunbeam strikes along the world : 

And but for fancies, which aver 
That all thy motions gently pass 
Athwart a plane of molten glass, 

I scarce could brook the strain and stir 

That makes the barren branches loud ; 
And but for fear it is not so, 
The wild unrest that lives in woe 

Would dote and pore on youder cloud 

That rises upward always higher. 
And onward drags a laboring breast, 
And topples round the dreary west, 

A looming bastion fringed with fire. 

XVI. 

What words are these have fall'n from me ? 

Cau calm despair and wild unrest 

Be tenants of a single breast, 
Or sorrow such a changeling be? 

Or doth she only seem to take 
The touch of change in calm or storm ; 
But knows DO more of transient form 

In her deep self, than some dead lake 

That holds the shadow of a lark 
Hung in the shadow of a heaven ? 
Or has the shock, so harshly given. 

Confused me like the unhappy bark 

That strikes by night a craggy shelf, 
And staggers blindly ere she sink? 
And stunu'd me from my power to think 

And all my knowledge of myself; 

And made me that delirious man 
Whose fancy fuses pld and new, 
And flashes into false and true. 

And mingles all without a plan? 

XVII. 

Tnou comest, much wept for : such a breeze 
Compell'd thy canras, and my prayer 
Was as the whisper of an air 

To breathe thee over lonely seas. 

por I in spirit saw thee move 
Thro' circles of the bounding sky, 
Week after week: the days go by: 

Come quick, thou bringest all I love. 

Uenceforth, wherever thou may'st roam. 
My blessing, like a line of light. 
Is on the waters day and night. 

And like a beacon guards thee home. 

So may whatever tempest mars 
Mid-ocean s])are thee, sacred bark ; 
And balmy drops in summer dark 

Glide from the bosom of the stars. 

So kind an office hath been done. 
Such precious relics brought by thee; 
The dust of him I shall not see 

Till all my widow'd race be run. 



XVIII. 

'T IS well ; 't is something ; we may stand 
Where he in English earth is laid. 
And from his ashes may be made 

The violet of his native land. 

'T is little : but it looks in truth 
As if the (}uiet bones were blest 
Among familiar names to rest 

And in the places of his youth. 

Come then, pure hands,, and bear the heafi 
That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep, 
And come, whatever loves to weep. 

And hear the ritual of the dead. 

Ah j'et, ev'n yet, If this might be, 
I, falling on his faithful heart, 
Would breathing through his lips impart 

The life that almost dies in me ; 

That dies not, but endures with pain, 
Aud slowly forms the firmer mind. 
Treasuring the look it cannot find. 

The words that are not heard again. 

XIX. 

TuE Danube to the Severn gave 
The darken'd heart that beat no more: 
They laid him by the pleasant shore, 

And in the hearing of the wave. 

There twice a day the Severn fills ; 
The salt sea-water passes by, 
And hushes half the babbling Wye, 

And makes a silence in the hills. 

The Wye is hush'd nor moved along. 
And hush'd my deepest grief of all, 
When fill'd with tears that cannot fall, 

I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

The tide flows down, the wave again 

Is vocal in its w-ooded walls; 

My deeper anguish also falls. 
And I can speak a little then. 

XX. 

The lesser griefs that may be said. 
That breathe a thousand tender vows, 
Are but as servants in a house 

Where lies the master newly dead ; 

Who speak Iheir feeling as it is. 
And weep the fulness from the mind : 
"It will be hard," they say, " to find 

Another service such as this." 

My lighter moods are like to these, 
That out of words a comfort win ; 
But there are other griefs within, 

Aud tears that at their fountain freezes 

For by the hearth the children sit 
Cold in that atmosphere of Death, 
And scarce endure to draw the breath. 

Or like to noiseless phantoms flit: 

But open converse is there none, 
So much the vital spirits sink 
To see the vacant chair, and think, 

"IIow good ! how kind! and he is gone." 

XXI. 

1 siNO to him that rests below. 
And, since the grasses round me wave, 
I take the grasses of the grave. 

And make them pipes whereon to blow. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



109 



The travtller hears me now and then, 
Aud sometimes harshly will he speak: 
'-This fellow would make weakness weak, 

Aud melt the waxen hearts of men." 

Another answers, "Let him be. 
He loves to make parade of pain, 
That with his piping he may gain 

The praise that comes to constancy.'' 

A third is wroth, "Is this an honr 
For private sorrow's barren song, 
When more*and more the people throng 

The chairs and thrones of civil power ? 

"A time to sicken and to swoon. 
When Science leaches forth her arms 
To feel from world to world, and charms 

Her secret from the latest moon ?"' 

Behold, ye speak an idle thing: 

Ye never knew the sacred dust : 

I do but sing because I must, 
Aud pipe but as the linnets sing: 

And one is glad : her note is gay, 
For now her little ones have ranged ; 
And one is sad : her note is changed, 

Because her brood is stol'n away. 

XXII. 

The path by which we twain did go, 
Which led by tracts that pleased us well, 
Thro' four sweet years arose and fell, 

From flower to flower, from snow to snow: 

And we with singing cheer'd the way. 
And crown'd with all the season lent. 
From April on to April went. 

And glad at heart from May to May: 

But where the path we walk'd began 

To slant the fifth autumnal slope, 

As we descended, following Hope, 
There sat the Shadow fear'd of man ; 

Who broke our fair companionship. 
And spread his mantle dark and cold. 
And wrapt thee formless in the fold. 

And dull'd the murmur on thy lii). 

And bore thee where I could not see 
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste, 
And think that somewhere in the waste 

The Shadow sits and waits for me. 

XXIII. 

Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut. 

Or breaking into song by fits. 

Alone, alone, to where he sits, 
The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot, 

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
I wander, often falling lame. 
And looking back to whence I came, 

Or on to where the pathway leads ; 

And crying, "How changed from where it ran 
Thro' lands where not a leaf was dumb; 
But all the lavish hills would hum 

The murmur of a happy Pan : 

"Wheil each by turns was pnide to each. 
And Fancy light from Fancy caught. 
And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought 

Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech ; 



" And all we met was fair and good. 
And all was good that Time could bring, 
And all the secret of the Spring 

Moved in the chambers of the blood 5 

"And many an old philosophy 
On Argive heights divinely sang, 
And round us all the thicket rang 

To many a flute of Arcady." 

XXIV. 

And was the day of my delight 

As sure and perfect as I say? 

The very source and font of Day 
Is dash'd with w'anderiug isles of night. 

If all was good and fair we met, 
This earth had been the Paradise 
It never look'd to human eyes 

Since Adam left his garden yet. 

And is it that the haze of grief 
Makes former gladness loom so great? 
The lowuess of the present state, 

That sets the past in this relief? 

Or that the past will always win 

A glory from its being far; 

And orb into the perfect star 
We saw not, when we moved therein ? 

XXV. 

I KNOW that this was Life,— the track 
Whereon with equal feet we fared : 
And then, as now, the day prepared 

The daily burden for the back. 

But this it was that made me move 
As light as carrier-birds in air; 
I loved the weight I had to bear, 

Because it needed help of love ; 

Nor conld I weary, heart or limb, 
When mighty Love would cleave in twain 
The lading of a single pain. 

And part it, giving half to him. 

XXVL 

Stilt, onward winds the dreary way ; 
I with it ; for I long to prove 
No lapse of moons can canker Love, 

Whatever fickle tongues may say. 

And if that eye which watches guilt 
Aud goodness, and hath power to see 
Within the green the monlder'd tree, 

And towers fall'ii as soon as built, — 

O, if indeed that eye foresee 
Or see (in Him is no before) 
In more of life trne life no more, 

Aud Love the iudifl"erence to be. 

Then might I find, ere yet the morn 
Breaks hither over Indian seas, 
That Shadow waiting with the keys, 

To shroud me from my proper scorn. 

XXVII. 

I ENVY not in any moods 
The captive void of noble rage. 
The linnet born within the cage. 

That never knew the summer woods ; 

I envy not the beast that takes 
His license in the field of time, 
Uufettcr'd by the sense of crime, 

To whom a conscience never wakes: 



110 



IN MEMOKIAM. 



Nor, what may count itself as blest, 
The heart that never plighted troth. 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth ; 

Nor any waut-b6gotteu rest. 

I hold it trne, whate'er befall ; 

I feci it, when I sorrow most ; 

'T is better to have loved and lost 
Thau never to have loved at all. 

XXVIII. 

TuE time draws near the birth of Christ: 
Tlie moon is hid ; the night is still ; 
The Christmas bells from hill to hill 

Answer each other iu the mist. 

Four voices of four hamlets round. 
From far and near, on mead and moor, 
Swell out and fail, as if a door 

Were shut between me and the sound: 

Bach voice four changes on the wind. 
That now dilate, aud now decrease. 
Peace and good-will, good-will and peace. 

Peace and good-will, to all mankind. 

This year I slept and woke with pain, 
I almost wish'd no more to wake. 
And that my hold on life would break 

Before I heard those bells again: 

But they my troubled spirit rule. 
For they controll'd me when a boy ; 
They bring me sorrow touch'd with joy, 

The merry, merry bells of Yule. 

XXIX. 

With such compelling cause to grieve 
As daily vexes household peace, 
Aud chains regret to his decease. 

How dare we keep our Christmas-eve ; 

Which brings no more a welcome guest 
To enrich the threshold of the night 
With shower'd largess cf delight. 

In dance and song and game and jest. 

Yet go, aud while the holly-boughs- 
Entwine the cold baptismal font, 
Make one wreath more for Use and Wont 

That guard the portals of the house ; 

Old sisters of a day gone by. 
Gray nurses, loving nothing new ; 
Why should they miss their yearly due 

Before their time ? They too will die. 

XXX. 

With trembling fingers did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas hearth ; 
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth. 

And sadly fell our Christmas-eve, 

At our old pastimes in the hall 
We gamboll'd, making vain pretence 
Of gladness, with an awful sense 

Of one mute Shadow watching all. 

We paused : the winds were in the beech : 
We heard them sweep the winter laud; 
And iu a circle hand-iu-hand 

Sat silent, looking each at each. 

Then echo-like our voices rang; 
We sung, tho' every eye was dim, 
A merry song we sang with him 

Last year: impetuously we sang: 



We ceased: a gentler feeling crept 

Upon us : surely rest is meet : 

"They rest," we said, "their sleep is sweet,' 
And silence foUow'd, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higher range ; 

Once more we sang : " They do not die 

Nor lose their mortal sympathy. 
Nor change to us, although they changS; 

"Rapt from the fickle and the frail 
With gathered power, yet the same, 
Pierces the keen seraphic flame 

From orb to orb, from veil to veil." 

Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn. 
Draw forth the cheerful day from nights 
O Father, touch the east, and light 

The light that shoue when Hope was born. 

XXXI. 

When Lazarus left his charnel-cave. 
And home to Mary's house return'd, 
Was this demanded,— if he yearn'd 

To hear her weeping by his grave ? 

"Where wert thou, brother, those four days?" 

There lives no record of reply. 

Which telling what it is to die 
Had surely added praise to praise. 

From every house the neighbors met, 
The streets were flll'd with joyful sound, 
A solemn gladness even crown'd 

The purple brows of Olivet. 

Behold a man raised up by Christ 1 

The rest remaineth uureveal'd ; 

He told it not ; or something seal'd 
The lips of that Evangelist. 

XXXIL 

Hke eyes are homes of silent prayer. 
Nor other thought her mind admits 
But, he was dead, and there he sits, 

And he that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep love doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Roves from the living brother's face, 

And rests upon the Life indeed. 

All subtle thought, all curious fears. 
Borne down by gladness so complete, 
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet 

With costly spikenard and with tears. 

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful pra3-ers, 
Whose loves in higher love endure ; 
What souls possess themselves so pure, 

Or is there blessedness like theirs ? 

XXXIII. 

O THOU that after toil and storm 
Mayst seem to have reach'd a purer aifj 
Whose faith has centre everywhere. 

Nor cares to fix itself to form, 

Leave thou thy sister, when she prays. 
Her. early Heaven, her happy views; 
Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse. 

A life that leads melodious days. 

Her faith thro' form is pure as thine. 
Her hands are quicker unto good : 
O, sacred be the flesh and blood 

To which she links a truth divine ! 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Ill 



See thon, that coinitest ie;ison ripe 
111 lioldiiig by tlie law witliiii, 
Thou fail not in a world of sin, 

And ev'u for want of such a type. 

XXXIV. 

My own dim life .should teach nie this. 
That life shall live foievennore, 
Else earth is darkncfs at the core. 

And dust and ashes all that is ; 

This round of green, this orb of tlame, 
Fantastic beauty; such as lurks 
In some wild Poet, when he works 

Without ii conscience or an aim. 

What then were God to such as I? 

'T were hardly wortlx my while to choose 

Of things all mortal, or to use 
A little patience ere I die; 

'T were best at once to sinic to peace. 
Like birds the charming serpent draws. 
To drop head-foremost in the jaws 

Of vacant darkness, and to ceasfl. 

XXXV. 

Yet if some voice that man could trust 
Should nmrniur from the narrow house, 
"The cheeks drop in; the body bows; 

Man dies: nor is there hope in dust:" 

Might I not say, " Yet even here, 
But for one hour, O Love, I strive 
To keep so sweet a thing alive ?" 

But I should turn mine ears and hear 

The nioaniugs of the homeless sea. 
The sound of streams that swift or slow 
Draw down Ionian hills, and sow 

The dust of continents to be; 

And Love would answer with a sigh, 
"The sound of that forgetfnl shore 
Will change my sweetness more and more, 

Half-dead to know that I shall die." 

O me! what profits it to put 
An idle case? If Death were seen 
At first as Death, Love had not been, 

Or been in narrowest worliing shut. 

Mere fellowship of sluggish moods, 

Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape 

Had bruised the herb and cnish'd the grape, 
And bask'd and batten'd in the woods. 

XXXVI. 

Tno' truths in manhood darkly join, 
Deep-seated in our mystic frame. 
We yield all blessing to the name 

Of Him that made them current coin ; 

For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers. 
Where Truth in closest words shall fail. 
When Truth embodied in a talc 

Shall enter in at lowly doors. 

And so the Word had breath, and wrought 
With human hands the creed of creeds 
In loveliness of perfect deeds, 

More strong than all poetic thought; 

Which he may read that binds the sheaf. 
Or builds the house, or digs the grave. 
And those wild eyes that watch the wave 

lu roarings round the coral reef. 

XXXVIL 

Ubani,v speaks with darken'd bi'ow: 
"Thou pratest here where thou art least; 
This faith has many a purer priest. 

And many an abler voice than thou. 



"Go down beside thy native rill, 
On thy Parua.ssus set thy feet. 
And hear thy laurel whisper sweet 

About the ledges of the hill." 

And my Melpomene replies, 
A touch of shame upon her cheek : 
"I am not worthy ev'ii to speak 

Of thy prevailing mysteries; 

"For I am but an earthly Muse, 
And owning but a little art 
To lull with song an aching heart, 

And render human love his dues; 

"But brooding on the dear one dead. 
And all he said of things divine, 
(And dear to me as sacred wine 

To dying lips is all he said,) 

"I murmur'd, as I came along, 
Of comfort clasp'd in truth reveal'd ; 
And loiter'd in the Master's field. 

And darken'd sanctities with song." 

XXXVIII. 

WiTu weary steps I loiter on, 
Tho' always under alter'd skies 
The purple from the distance dies, 

My prospect and horizon gone. 

No joy the blowing season gives, 
The herald melodies of spring, 
But in the songs I love to sing 

A doubtful gleam of solace lives. 

If any care for what is here 
Survive in spirits render'd free, 
Then are these songs I sing of thee 

Not all ungrateful to thine ear. 

XXXIX. 

Old warder of these buried bones. 
And answering now my random stroke 
With fruitful cloud and living smoke, 

Dark yew, that graspest at the stones 

And dippest toveard the dreamless head, 
To thee too comes the golden hour 
When flower is feeling after flower; 

But Sorrow— flxt upon the dead, 

And darkening the dark graves of men, — 
What whisper'd from her lying lips? 
Thy gloom is kindled at the tips. 

And passes into gloom again. 

XL. 

CouLT) we forget the widow'd hour. 

And look on Spirits breathed away. 
As on a maiden in the day 
When first she wears her orange-flower ! 

When crown'd with blessing she doth rise 
To take her latest leave of home. 
And hopes and light regrets that come 

Make April of her tender eyes : 

And doubtful joys the fiither move. 
And tears are on the mother's face, 
As parting with a long embrace 

She enters other realms of love: 

Her ofllce there to rear, to teach, 
Becoming, as is meet and fit, 
A link among the days, to knit 

The generations each with each ; 

And, doubtless, unto thee is given 
A life that bears immortal fruit 
In such great offices as suit 

The full-growu energies of heaven. 



112 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Ay me, the difference I discern ! 
How often shall her old fireside 
Be cheer'd with tidings of the bride, 

How often she herself return, 

And tell them all they would have told, 
And bring her babe, and make her boast, 
'^ill even those that miss'd her most 

Shall count new things as dear as old: 

But thou and I have shaken hands, 
Till growing winters lay me low ; 
My paths are in the fields I know, 

And thine in undiscover'd lands. 

XLI. 

TiiY spirit ere our fatal loss 
Did ever rise from high to higher; 
As mounts the heavenward altar-flre, 

As flies the lighter thro' the gross. 

But thou art turn'd to something strange, 
And I have lost the links that bound 
Thy changes; here upon the ground, 

No more partaker of thy change. 

Deep folly ! yet that this could be,— 
That I could wing my will with might 
To leap the grades of life and light. 

And flash at once, my friend, to thee: 

For tho' my nature rarely yields 
To that vague fear implied in death ; 
Nor shudders at the gulfs beneath. 

The bowlings from forgotten fields: 

Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor 

An inner trouble I behold, 

A spectral doubt which makes me cold. 
That I shall be thy mate no more, 

Tho' following with an upward mind 
The wonders that have conje to thee. 
Thro' all the secular to-be, 

But evermore a life behind. 

XLII. 

I VF.x my heart with fancies dim: 
He still outstript me in the race ; 
It was but unity of place 

That made me dream I rank'd with him. 

And so may Place retain us still. 
And he the much-beloved again, 
A lord of large experience, train 

To riper growth the mind and will : 

And what delights can equal those 
That stir the spirit's inner deeps, 
When one that loves, but knows not, rcapi 

A truth from one that loves and knows? 

XLIII. 

If Sleep and Death be truly one. 
And every spirit's folded bloom 
Thro' all its intervital gloom 

In some long trance should slumber on ; 

Unconscious of the sliding hour. 
Bare of the body, might it last, 
And silent traces of the past 

Be all the color of the flower: 

So then were nothing lost to man: 
So that still garden of the souls 
In many a figured leaf enrolls 

The total world since life began ; 

And Love will last ns pure and whole 
As when he loved me here in Time, 
And at the spiritual prime 

Rewaken with the dawning soul. 



XLIV. 

How fares it with the happy dead? 

For here the man is more and more; 

But he forgets the days before 
God shut the doorways of his head. 

The days have vanish'd, tone and tint. 
And yet perhaps the hoarding sense 
Gives out at times (he knows not whence) 

A little flash, a mystic hint; 

And in the long harmonious years 
(If Death so taste Lethean si)rings) 
May some dim touch of eartlily things 

Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. 

If such a dreamy touch should fall, 
O turn thee round, resolve the doubt ; 
My guardian angel will speak out 

In that high place, and tell thee all. 

XLV. 
TuE baby new to earth and sky. 

What time his tender palm is prest 

Against the circle of the breast, 
Has never thought that "this is I:" 

But as he grows he gathers much. 
And learns the use of "I," and "me," 
And finds "I am not what I see. 

And other than the things I touch." 

So rounds he to a separate mind 
From whence clear memory may begin. 
As thro' the frame that binds him in 

His isolation grows defined. 

This use may lie in blood and breath. 
Which else were fruitless of their due. 
Had man to learn himself anew 

Beyond the second birth of Death. 

XLVL 

We ranging down this lower track, 
The path we came by, thorn and flowor, 
Is shadow'd by the growing hour. 

Lest life should fail in looking back. 

So be it: there no shade can last 
In that deep dawn behind the tomb. 
But clear from marge to marge shall bloom 

The eternal landscape of the past : 

A lifelong tract of time reveal'd ; 

The fruitful hours of still increase ; 

Days order'd in a wealthy peace, 
And those five years its richest field. 

O Love, thy province were not large, 
A bounded field, nor stretching far; 
Look also, Love, a brooding star, 

A rosy warmth from marge to marge. 

XLVII. 

That each, who seems a separate whole. 
Should move his rounds, and fusing all 
The skirts of self again, should fall 

Kemerging in the general Soul, 

Is faith as vague as all unsiveet : 
Eternal form shall still divide 
The eternal soul from all beside ; 

And I shall know him when we meet; 

And we shall sit at endless feast. 
Enjoying each the other's good: 
What vaster dream can hit the mood 

Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least 



IN MEMORIAM. 



113 



Upon the last and sharpest height, 
Before the spirits fade away, 
Some landing-phice to clasp and say, 

" Farewell ! We lose ourselves in light." 

XLVIII. 

If these brief lays of Sorrow born, 
Were taken to be such as closed 
Grave doubts and answers here proposed, 

Then these were such as men might scorn: 

Her care is not to part and prove ; 
She takes, when harsher moods remit. 
What slender shade of doubt may flitv 

And makes it vassal uuto love : 

And hence, indeed, she sports with words. 
But better serves a wholesome law, 
And holds it sin and shame to draw 

The deepest measure from the chords: 

Nor dare she trust a larger lay. 
But rather loosens from the lip 
Short swallow-ilights of song, that dip 

Their wings in tears, and skim away. 

XLTX. 

From art, from nature, from the schools. 
Let random iuriuences glance. 
Like light in many a shiver'd lance 

That breaks about the dappled pools: 

The lightest wave of thought shall lisp. 
The fancy's tenderest eddy wreathe, 
The slightest air of song shall breathe 

To make the sullen surface crisp. 

And look thy look, and go thy way. 
But blame not thou the winds that make 
The seeming-wanton ripple break, 

The teuder-peucil'd shadow play. 

Beneath all fancied hopes and fears, 
Ay uie ! the sorrow deepens down. 
Whose muffled motions blindly drown 

The bases of my life in tears. 



Be near me when my light is low. 
When the blood creeps, and the nerves piick 
And tingle; and the heart is sick, 

And all the wheels of Being slow. 

Be near me when the sensuous frame 
Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust: 
And Time, a maniac scattering dust, 

And Life, a Fury slinging flame. 

Be near me when my faith is dry. 
And men the flies of latter spring, 
That lay their eggs, and sting and sing, 

And weave their petty cells and die. 

Be near me when I fade away, 
To point the term of human strife, 
And on the low dark verge of life 

The twilight of eternal day. 

LI. 

Do we indeed desire the dead 
Should still be near us at our side? 
Is there no baseness we would hide? 

No inner vileness that we dread ? 

Shall he for whose applause I strove, 
I had such reverence for his blame, 
See with clear eye some hidden shame, 

And I be le3-«n'd in his love ? 



I wrong the grave with fears untrue : 
Shall love be blamed for want of faith? 
There must be wisdom with great Death 

The dead ^hall look me thro' and thro'. 

Be near us when we climb or fall : 
Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours 
With larger other eyes than ours, 

To make allowance for us all. 

LII. 

I OANNOT love thee as I ought. 
For love reflects the thing beloved : 
My words are only words, and moved 

Upon the topmost froth of thought. 

"Yet blame not thou thy plaintive song,'* 
The Spirit of true love replied ; 
" Thou canst not move me from thy side,. 

Nor human frailty do me wrong. 

"What keeps a spirit wholly true 

To that ideal which he bears? 

What record? not the sinless years 
That breathed beneath the Syrian blue: 

"So fret not, like an idle girl, 
That life is dasli'd with flecks of siu. 
Abide : thy wealth is gafher'd in, 

When Time hath sunder'd shell from ptarl.' 

LIIL 

How many a father have I seen, 
A sober man among his boys. 
Whose youth was full of foolish noisfc, 

Who wears his manhood hale and green: 

And dare we to this fimcy give. 
That had the wild-oat not been sown. 
The soil, left barren, scarce had grown 

The grain by which a man may live? 

O, if we held the doctrine sound 
For life outliving heats of youth. 
Yet who would preach it as a truth 

To those that eddy round and round? 

Hold thou the good: define it well: 

For fear divine Philosophy 

Should push beyond her mark, and be 
Procuress to the Lords cf Hell. 

LIV. 

O VET we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final goal of ill. 
To pangs of nature, sins of will, 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet; 

That not one life shall be destroy'd, 

Or cast as rubbish to the void. 
When God hath made the pile complete 

That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 

That not a moth with vain desire 

Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire, 
Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold we know not anything ; 

I can but trust that good shall fall 

At last— far off— at last, to all. 
And every winter change to spring. 

So runs my dream: but what am I ? 

An infant crying in the night: 

An infant crying for the light: 
And with no language but a cry. 



lU 



IN MEMORIAM. 



LV. 

The wish, that of the living whole 
No life may fail beyoud the grave, 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the soul ? 

Are God and Nature then at strife. 
That Nature lends such evil dreams? 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life ; 

That I, considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning iu her deeds, 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod. 
And falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's altar-stairs 

That slope thro' darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 
And gather dust and chaff, and call 
To what I feel is Lord of all. 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 

LVI. 

"So careful of the type?" but no. 
From scarped cliff and quarried stone 
She cries, " A thousand types are gone : 

I care for nothing, all shall go. 

"Thou makest thine appeal to me: 
I bring to life, 1 bring to death : 
The spirit does but mean the breath: 

I know no more." And he, shall he, 

Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, 
Such splendid purpose in his eyes. 
Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies, 

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer. 

Who trusted God was love indeed, 
And love Creation's final law, — 
Tho' Nature, red iu tooth and claw 

With ravin, shriek'd against his creed,— 

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills. 
Who battled for the True, the Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust. 

Or seal'd within the iron hills ? 

No more ? A monster then, a dream, 
A discord. Dragons of the prime. 
That tare each other in their slime. 

Were mellow music match'd with him. 

O life as futile, then, as frail ! 

O for thy voice to soothe and bless ". 

What hope of answer, or redress ? 
Behind the veil, behind the veil. 

LVll. 

Pt;aoe; come away: the song of woe 
Is after all an earthly song : 
Peace ; come away : we do liim wrong 

To sing so wildly : let us go. 

Come ; let us go : your cheeks arc pale ; 
But half my life I leave behind : 
Mcthinks my friend is richly shrined : 

Bat I shall pass ; my work will fail. 

Yet iu these ears, till hearing dies, 
One set slow bell will seem to toll 
The passing of the sweetest soul 

That e*'er look'd with human eyes. 



I hear it now, and o'er and o'er, 

Eternal greetings to the dead ; 

And "Ave, Ave, Ave," said, 
"Adieu, adieu," forevermore. 

LVIII. 
In those sad words I took farewell: 

Like echoes in sepulchral halls. 

As drop by drop the water falls 
In vaults and catacombs, they fell ; 

And, falling, idly broke the peace 
Of hearts that beat from day to day. 
Half conscious of their dying clay, 

And those cold crypts where they shall cease. 

The high Muse answer'd: "Wherefore grieve 
Thy brethren with a fruitless tear ? 
Abide a little longer here. 

And thou shalt take a nobler leave." 

LIX. 

O SoEKOw, wilt thou live with me. 
No casual mistress, but a wife. 
My bosom-friend and half of life ; 

As I confess it needs must be ; 

O Sorrow, wilt thou rule my blood. 
Be sometimes lovely like a bride. 
And put thy harsher moods aside. 

If thou wilt have me wise and good. 

My centred passion cannot move. 

Nor will it lessen from to-day; 

But I'll have leave at times to play 
As with the creature of my love ; 

And set thee forth, for thou art mine. 
With so much hope for years to come. 
That, howsoe'er I know thee, some 

Could hardly tell what name were thine. 

LX. 

He past; a soul of nobler tone: 
My spirit loved and loves him yet. 
Like some poor girl whose heart is set 

On one whose i-auk exceeds her own. 

He mixing with his proper sphere. 
She finds the baseness of her lot. 
Half jealous of she knows not what, 

And envying all that meet him there. 

The little village looks forlorn ; 
She sighs amid her narrow days. 
Moving about the household ways, 

In that dark house where she was born. 

The foolish neighbors come and go. 
And tease her till the day draws by: 
At night she weeps, " How vaiu am I ! 

How should he love a thing so low ?" 

LXI. 
If, iu thy second state sublime. 

Thy ransom'd reason change replies 

With all the circle of the wise. 
The perfect flower of human time ; 

And if thou cast thine eyes below. 
How dimly character'd and .slight. 
How dwarf'd a growth of cold and night. 

How blanch'd with darkness must I grow ! 

Yet turn thee to the donbtful shore. 
Where thy first form was made a man ; 
I loved thee. Spirit, and love, nor can 

The soul of Shakespeare love thee more. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



11; 



LXII. 

Tho' if an eye that "s downward cast 
Could make tliee somewhat blench or fail, 
Then be my love an idle tale, 

And fading legend of the past; 

And thou, as one that once declined 
When he was little more than boy, 
On some unworthy heart with joy, 

But lives to wed an equal mind ; 

And breathes a novel world, the while 

His other passion wholly dies, 

Or in the light of deeper eyes 
Is matter for a flying smile. 

LXIII. 

Yet pity for a horse o'er-diiven, 
And love in which my hound has part, 
Can hang no weight upon my heart 

In its assumptions up to heaven ; 

And I am so much more than these, 
As thou, perchance, art more than I, 
And yet I spare them sympathy, 

And I would set their pains at ease. 

So raayst thou watch me where I weep, 
As, unto vaster motions bound. 
The circuits of thine orbit round 

A higher height, a deeper deep. 

LXIV. 

Dost thou look back on what hath been. 

As some divinely gifted man, 

Whose life in low estate began 
And on a simple village green ; 

Who breaks his birth's invidious Iwr, 
And grasps the skirts of happy chance, 
And breasts the blows of circumstance. 

And grapples with his evil star ; 

Who malces by force his merit known, 
And lives to clutch the golden kej's, 
To mould a mighty state's decrees. 

And shape the whisper of the throne ; 

And moving up from high to higher, 
Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope 
The pillar of a people's hope. 

The centre of a world's desire ; 

Yet feels, as in a pensive dream. 
When all his active powers are still, 
A distant dearness in the hill, 

A secret sweetness in the stream. 

The limit of his narrower fate. 
While yet beside its vocal springs 
He play'd at counsellors and kings. 

With one that was his earliest mate ; 

Who ploughs with pain his native lea 
And reaps the labor of his hands. 
Or in the fiuTow musing stands ; 

" Does my old friend remember me ?" 

LXV. 
Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt; 

I hill a fiincy trouble-tost 

With "Love's too precious to be lost, 
A little grain shall not be spilt." 

And in that solace can I sing, 
Till out of painfnl phases wrought 
There flutters up a happy thought, 

Self-balanced on a lightsome wing : 



Since we deserved the name of friends, 

And thine eflect so lives in me, 

A part of mine may live in thee. 
And move thee on to noble ends. 

LXVI. 

You thought my heart too far diseasod; 

You wonder when my fancies play 

To find me gay among the gay. 
Like one with any trifle pleased. 

The shade by which my life was crost. 
Which makes a desert in tlie mind, 
Has made me kindly with my kind. 

And like to him whose sight is lost ; 

Whose feet are guided tliro' the land. 
Whose jest among his friends is free, 
Who takes the children on his knee. 

And winds their curls about his hand : 

He plays with threads, he beats his chair 
For pastime, dreaming of the sky ; 
His inner day can never die, 

His night of loss is always there." 

Lxvn. 

When on my bed the moonlight falls, 

I know that in thy place of rest. 

By that broad water of the west, 
There comes a glory on the walls : 

Thy marble bright in darlc appears, 

As slowly steals a silver flame 

Along the letters of thy name, 
And o'er the number of thy years. 

The mystic glory swims away: 
From oft' my bed the moonlight dies : 
And, closing eaves of wearied eyes, 

I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray ; 

And then I know the mist is drawn 
A lucid veil from coast to coast, 
And in the dark church, like a ghost, 

Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. 

LXVIIL 

When in the down I sink my head, 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times my breath: 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows not Death, 

Nor can I dream of thee as dead : 

I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn. 
When all our path was fresh with dew. 
And all the bugle breezes blew 

ReveillcJe to the breaking morn. 

But what is this ? I turn about, 
I find a trouble in thine eye, 
Which makes me sad, I know not why„ 

Nor can my dream resolve the doubt : 

But ere the lark hath left the lea 

I wake, and I discern the truth ; 

It is the trouble of my yonth 
That foolish sleep transfers to thee. 

LXIX. 

I pueam'd there would be Spring no more, 
That Nature's ancient power was lost : 
The streets were black with smoke and frosti 

They chatter'd trifles at the door : 

I wander'd from the noisy town, 
I found a wood with thorny boughs: 
I took the thorns to bind my browsg 

I wore them like a civic crown: 



UG 



IN MEMORIAM. 



I met with scoffs, I met with scorns 
From youth and babe and hoary hairs : 
They call'd me in the public squares 

The fool that wears a crown of thorns : 

They call'd me fool, they call'd me child : 
1 found an angel of the night : 
The voice was low, the look was bright ; 

He look'd upon my crown and smiled : 

lie rcach'd the glory of a hand, 
That seem'd to touch it into leaf: 
The voice was not the voice of grief; 

The words were hard to understand. 

LXX. 

I CANNOT see >,he features right, 
When on the gloom I strive to paint 
The face I know ; the hues are faint 

And mis with hollow masks of night ; 

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, 
A gulf that ever shuts and gapes, 
A hand that points, and palled shapes 

lu shadowy thoroughfares of thought ; 

And crowds that stream from yawning doors 
And shoals of pucker'd faces drive : 
Dark bulks that tumble half alive, 

And lazy lengths on boundless shores : 

Till all at once beyond the will 

I hear a wizard music roll, 

And thro' a lattice on the soul 
Looks thy fair face and makes it still. 

LXXI. 

Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance 
And madness, thou hast forged at last 
A night-long Present of the Past 

In which we went thro' summer Prance. 

Iladst thou such credit with the sonl? 
Then bring an opiate trebly strong. 
Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong 

That so my pleasure may be whole ; 

While now we talk as once we talk'd 
Of men and minds, the dust of change. 
The days that grow to something strange. 

In walking as of old we walk'd 

Beside the river's wooded reach. 
The fortress, and the mountain ridge, 
TUe cataract flashing from the bridge, 

The breaker breaking on the beach. 

LXXII. 

RiuERT thou thus, dim dawn, again, 
And howlest, issuing out of night, 
With blasts that blow the poplar white, 

And lash with storm the streaming pane? 

Daj', when my crown'd estate begun 
To pine in that reverse of doom, 
Which siiken'd every living bloom, 

And blurr'd the splendor of the sun; 

Who usherest in the dolorous hour 
With lliy quick tears that make the rose 
Pull sideways, and the daisy close 

Her crimson fringes to the shower ; 

Who might'st have heaved a windless flame 
Up the deep East, or, whispering, play'd 
A chequer-work of beam and shade 

Alons the hills, yet looked the same. 



As wan, as chill, as wild as now ; 
Day, mark'd as with some hideous crime 
When the dark hand struck down thro' time, 

And cancell'd nature's best: but thou, 

Lift as thon mayst thy burthen'd brows 
Thro' clouds that drench the morning star. 
And whirl the ungarner'd sheaf afar, 

And sow the sky with flying boughs. 

And up thy vault with roaring sound 
Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day; 
Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray. 

And hide thy shame beneath the ground. 

LXXIIL 

So many worlds, so much to do, 
So little done, such things to be. 
How know I what had need of thee. 

For thou wert strong as thou wert true? 

The fame is queuch'd that I foresaw, 
The head hath miss'd an earthly wreath 
I curse not nature, no, nor death ; 

For nothing is that errs from law. 

We pass ; the path that each man trofl 
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds: 
What fiime is left for human deeds 

In endless age ? It rests with God. 

hollow wraith of dying fame. 
Fade wholly, while the scuil exults, 
And self-infolds the large results 

Of force that would have forged a name. 

LXXIV. 

As sometimes in a dead man's face. 
To those that watch it more and more, 
A likeness, hardly seen before. 

Comes out — to some one of his race : 

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 
I see thee what thou art, and know 
Thy likeness to the wise below. 

Thy kindred with the great of old. 

But there is more than I can see. 
And what I see I leave unsaid, 
Nor speak it, knowing Death has made 

His darkness beautiful with thee. 

LXXV. 

1 LEAVE thy praises uuexpress'd 

In verse that brings myself relief. 

And by the measure of my grief 

I leave thy greatness to be guess'd ; 

What practice howsoe'er expert 
In fitting aptcst words to things, 
Or voice the richest-toned that sings 

Ilath power to give thee as thou wert? 

I care not in these fading days 
To raise a cry that lasts not long. 
And round thee with the breeze of song 

To stir a little dust of praise. 

Thy leaf has perish'd in the green, 
And, while we breathe beneath the sun, 
The world which credits what is done 

Is cold to all that might have been. 

So here shall silence guard thy fame ; 

But somewhere, out of human view, 

Whate'er thy hands are set to do 
Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



117 



LXXVI. 

Take wings of faucy, and ascend, 
And in a moment set thy face 
Where all the starry heavens of space 

Are sharpeu'd to a needle's end ; 

Take wings of foresight ; lighten thro' 
The secnlar abyss to come, 
And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb 

Before the mouldering of a yew; 

And if the matin songs, that woke 
The darkness of our planet, last, 
Thine own shall wither in the vast, 

Ere half the lifetime of an oak. 

Ere these have clothed their branchy bowere 
With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain ; 
And what are they when these remain 

The ruin'd shells of hollow towers ? 

LXXVIT. 

What hope is here for modern rhyme 
To him who turns a musing eye 
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie 

Foreshorten'd in the tract of time ? 

These mortal lullabies of pain 
May bind a book, may line a box. 
May serve to curl a maiden's locks ; 

Or when a thousand moons shall wane 

A man upon a stall may find, 
And, passing, turn the page that tells 
A grief, then changed to something else, 

Sung by a long-forgotten mind. 

But what of that? My darken'd ways 
Shall ring with music all the same; 
To breathe my loss is more than fame. 

To utter love more sweet than praise. 

LXXVIII. 

Again at Christmas did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas hearth ; 
The silent snow possess'd the earth, 

And calmly fell our Christmas-eve: 

The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, 
No wing of wind the region swept, 
But over all things brooding slept 

The quiet sense of something lost. 

As in the winters left behind. 
Again our ancient games had place, 
The mimic picture's breathing grace. 

And dance and song and hoodman-blind. 

Who show'd a token of distress ? 
No single tear, no mark of pain : 

sorrow, then can sorrow wane ? 
O grief, can grief be changed to less ? 

O last regret, regret can die ! 
No,— mixt with all this mystic frame. 
Her deep relations are the same. 

But with long use her tears are dry. 

LXXIX. 
"More than my brothers are to me," 
Let this not vex thee, noble heart . 

1 know thee of what force thou art 
To hold the costliest love in fee. 

But thou and I are one in kind. 
As moulded like in nature's mint ; 
And hill and wood and field did print 

The same sweet forms in either mind. 



For us the same cold streamlet curl'd 
Thro' all his eddying coves ; the same 
All winds that roam the twilight carae 

In whispers of the beauteous world. 

At one dear knee we proffer'd vows, 
One lesson from one book we learn'd, 
Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet turn'd 

To black and brown on kindred brows. 

And so my wealth resembles thine. 
But he was rich where I was poor, 
And he supplied my want the mora 

As his unlikeness titled mine. 

LXXX. 

If any vague desire should rise. 
That holy Death ere Arthur died 
Had moved me kindly from his side, 

And dropt the dust on tearless eyes; 

Then fancy shapes, as fancy can. 
The grief my loss in him had wrought, 
A grief as deep as life or thought. 

But stay'd in peace with God and man. 

I make a picture in the brain ; 
I hear the sentence that he speaks ^ 
He bears the burthen of the weeks ; 

But turns his burthen into gain. 

His credit thus shall set me free ; 
And, influence-rich to soothe and save. 
Unused example from the grave 

Reach out dead hands to comfort me. 

LXXXI 

CoDi.n I have said while he was here, 
"My love shall now no further range; 
There cannot come a mellower change, 

For now is love mature in ear." 

Love, then, had hope of richer store: 
What end is here to my complaint? 
This haunting whisper makes me faint, 

" More years had made me love thee more,'' 

But Death returns an answer sweet: 
"My sudden frost was sudden gain, 
And gave all ripeness to the grain 

It might have drawn from after-heat." 

LXXXII. 

I WAGE not any feud with Death 
For changes wrought on form and face; 
No lower life that earth's embrace 

May breed with him can fright my faith. 

Eternal process moving on. 

From state to state the spirit walks; 

And these are but the shatter'd stalks, 
Or ruin'd chrysalis of one. 

Nor blame I Death, because he bare 
The use of virtue out of earth: 
I know transplanted human worth 

Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. 

For this alone on Death I wreak 
The wrath that garners in my heart • 
He put our lives so far apart 

We cannot hear each other speak 

LXXXIIL 
Dip down upon the northern shore, 
O sweet new-year, delaying long: 
Thou doest expectant nature wrong; 
Delaying long, delay no more. 



118 



IN MEMORIAM. 



What stays thee from the clouded noons, 
Thy sweetuess from its proper place 1 
Can trouble live with April days, 

Or sadness in the summer moons? 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, 
The little speedwell's darling blue. 
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew, 

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire, 

thou, new-year, delaying long, 
Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 
That longs to burst a frozen bud, 

And flood a fresher throat Avith song. 

LXXXIV. 

When I contemplate all alone 
The life that had been thine below, 
And fix my thoughts on all the glow 

To which thy crescent would have growu ; 

1 see thee sitting crown'd with good, 
A central warmth diffusiug bliss 

In glance and smile, and clasp and kiss, 
On all the branches of thy blood ; 

Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine ; 
For now the day was drawing on 
When thou shouldst link thy life witli one 

Of mine own house, and boys of thine 

Had babbled " Uncle " on my knee ; 
But that remorseless iron hour 
Made cypress of her orange-flower. 

Despair of Hope, and earth of thee. 

I seem to meet their least desire. 
To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. 
I see their unborn faces shine 

Beside the never-lighted fire. 

I see myself an honor'd guest, 
Thy partner in the flovi-ery walk 
Of letters, genial table-talk, 

Or deep dispute, and graceful jest ; 

While now thy prosperous labor fills 
The lips of men with honest praise, 
And sun by sun the happy days 

Descend below the golden hills 

With promise of a morn as fair ; 
And all the train of bounteous hours 
Conduct by paths of growing powers 

To reverence and the silver hair; 

Till slowly worn her earthly robe. 
Her lavish mission richly wrought. 
Leaving great legacies of thought, 

Thy spirit should fail from oft" the globe ; 

What time mine own might also flee, 
As link'd with thine in love and fate, 
And, hovering o'er the dolorous strait 

To the other shore, involved in thee, 

Arrive at last the blessed goal. 
And He that died in Holy Land 
Would reach us out the shining hand, 

And take us as a single soul. 

What reed was that on which I leant? 
Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake 
The old bitterness again, and break 

The low beginnings of content f 



LXXXV. 

This truth came borne with bier and pall, 
I felt it, when I sorrow'd most, 
'T is better to have loved and lost, 

Thau never to have loved at all 

O true in word, and tried in deed. 
Demanding so to bring relief 
To this which is our common grief. 

What kind of life is that I lead ; 

And whether trust in things above 
Be dimm'd of sorrow or sustaiu'd ; 
And whether love for him have drain'cl 

My capabilities of love ; 

Your words have virtue such as draws 
A faithful answer from the breast. 
Thro' light reproaches, half exprest, 

And loyal unto kindly laws. 

My blood an even tenor kept. 
Till on mine ear this message falls, 
That in Vienna's fatal walls 

God's finger touch'd him, and he slept. 

The great Intelligences fair 
That range above our mortal state. 
In circle round the blessed gate, 

Received and gave him welcome there , 

And led him thro' the blissful climes. 
And show'd him in the fountain fresh 
All knowledge that the sons of flesh 

Shall gather in the cycled times. 

But I remain'd, whose hopes were dim. 
Whose life, who've thoughts were little worth 
To wander on a darken'd earth. 

Where all things round me breathed of him. 

O friendship, equal-poised control, 
O heart, with kindliest motion warm, 

sacred essence, other form, 

O solemn ghost, O crowned soul ! 

Yet none could better know than I, 
How much of act at human hands 
The sense of human will demands, 

By which we dare to live or die. 

Wiiatever way my days decline, 

1 felt and feel, tho' left alone. 
His being working in mine own. 

The footsteps of his life in mine ; 

A life that all the Muses deck'd 
With gifts of grace, that might express 
All-comprehensive tenderness, 

All-subtilizing intellect; 

And so my passion hath not swerved 

To works of weakness, but I find 

An image comforting the mind. 
And in my grief a strength reserved. 

Likewise the imaginative woe. 
That loved to handle si)iritual strife, 
Diffused the shock thro' all my life, 

But in the present broke the blow. 

My pulses therefore beat again 
For other friends that once I met ; 
Nor can it suit me to forget 

The mighty hopes that make us men. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



119 



I woo your love: I count it crime 

To inoui-u for aiij' overmuch ; 

I, the divided Imlf of such 
A friendship as had master'd Time; 

Which masters Time indeed, aud is 

Eternal, separate from fears: 
The all-assumiug months aud years 

Can talie no part away from this : 

But Summer on the steaming floods, 
And Spring that swells the narrow brooks 
Aud Autumu, with a noise of roolis, 

That gather in the waning woods, 

And every pulse of wind and wave 
Recalls, in change of light or gloom, 
My old affection of the tomb, 

And my prime passion in the grave: 

My old affection of the tomb, 
A part of stillness, yearns to speak: 
"Arise, and get thee forth and seek 

A friendship for the years to come. 

"I watch thee from the quiet shore; 

Thy spirit up to mine can reach; 

But in dear words of human speech 
We two communicate no more." 

And I, "Can clouds of nature stain 
The starry clearness of the free ? 
How is it? Canst thou feel for me 

Some painless sympathy with pain?" 

And lightly does the whisper fall : 
"'T is hard for thee to fiithom this: 
I triumph in conclusive bliss. 

And that serene result of all." 

So hold I commerce with the dead : 
Or so methiuks the dead would say; 
Or so shall grief with symbols play, 

And pining life be fancy-fed. 

Now looking to some settled end. 
That these things pass, and I shall prove 
A meeting somewhere, love with love, 

I crave your pardon, O my friend ; 

If not so fresh, with love as trne, 

I, clasping brother-hands, aver 

I could not, if 1 would, transfer 
The whole I felt for him to you. 

For which be they that hold apart 
The promise of the golden hours ? 
First love, tirst friendship, equal powers, 

That marry with the virgin heart. 

Still mine, that cannot but deplore. 
That beats within a lonely place, 
That yet remembers his eml)race, 

Bat at his footstep leaps no more, 

My heart, tho' widow'd, may not rest 
Quite in the love of what is gone, 
But seeks to beat in time with one 

That warms anotlier living breast. 

Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, 
Knowing the primrose yet is dear, 
The primrose of the later year, 

Ab not unlike to that of Spring. 

LXXXVI. 

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, 
That rollest from the gorgeous gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 



The round of space, and rapt below 
Thro' all the dewy-tassell'd wood, 
And shadowing down the horned ilood 

In ripples, fan my brows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 
The full new lile that feeds thy breath 
Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Deaths 

111 brethren let the foucy tly 

From belt to belt ot crimson seas 
On leagues of odor streaming far, 
To where in yonder orient star 

A hundred spirits whisper "Peace." 

LXXXVII. 

I PAST beside the reverend walls 
In which of old I wore the gown ; 
I roved at random thro' the town, 

And saw the tumult of the halls ; 

Aud heard once more in college fanes 
The storm their high-built orgaus make, 
And thundcr-mnsic, rolling, shake 

The prophets blazon'd on the panes ; 

And caught once more the distant shout, 
The measured pulse of racing oars 
Among the willows; paced the shores 

And many a bridge, aud all about 

The same gray flats again, and felt 
The same, but not the sarife ; and last 
Up that long walk of limes I past 

To see the rooms in which he dwelt. 

Another name was on the door: 
I linger'd; all within was noise 
Of songs, and clapping hands, aud boys 

That crash'd the glass and beat the floor; 

\Miere once we held debate, a band 
Of youthful friends, on mind aud art, 
Aud labor, and the changing mart, 

And all the framework of the land ; 

When one would aim an arrow fair, 
But send it slackly from the string ; 
And one would pierce an outer ring, 

Aud one an inner, here and there ; 

And last the master-bowman, he 
Would cleave the mark. A williug gar 
We lent him. Who, but hung to hear 

The rapt oration flowing free 

From point to point, with power and graca 
And music in the bounds of law. 
To those conclusions when we saw 

The God within him light his face, 

And seem to lift the form, aud glow 

In azure orbits heavenly-wise; 

And over those ethereal eyes 
The bar of Michael Angelo. 

LXXXVIII. 

WiLT> bird, whose warble, liquid sweet. 
Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks, 
O tell me where the senses mix, 

O tell me where the passions meet. 

Whence radiate : fierce extremes employ 
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf. 
And in the midmost heart of grief 

Thy passion clasps a secret joy : 



120 



IN MEMORIAM. 



And I— my harp would prelude woe— 
I canuot all command the strings: 
The glory of the sura of things 

Will flash along the chords and go. 

LXXXIX. 

WiTcii-ELMS that counterchange the floor 
Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright; 
And thou, with all thy breadth and height 

Of foliage, towering sycamore ; 

How often, hither wandering down. 
My Arthur found your shadows fair, 
And shook to all the liberal air 

riie dust and din and steam of town : 

He brought an eye for all he saw ; 

He mixt in all our simple sports ; 

They pleased him, fresh from broiling courts 
And dusty purlieus of the law. 

O joy to him in this retreat, 
Immantled in ambrosial dark, 
To drink the cooler air, and mark 

The landscape winking thro' the heat: 

O sound to rout the brood of cares, 
The sweep of scythe in morning dew, 
The gust that round the garden flew, 

And tumbled half the mellowing pears I 

O bliss, when all in circle drawn 
About him, h%art and ear were fed 
To hear him, as he lay and read 

The Tuscan poet on the lawn: 

Or in the all-golden afternoon 
A guest, or happy sister, sung, 
Or here she brought the harp and flung 

A ballad to the brightening moon: 

Nor less it pleased in livelier moods. 
Beyond the bounding hill to stray. 
And break the livelong summer day 

With banquet in the distant woods ; 

Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, 
Discuss'd the books to love or hate. 
Or touch'd the changes of the state. 

Or threaded some Socratic dream; 

But if I praised the busy town, 
Ho loved to rail against it still. 
For "ground in yonder social mill, 

We rub each other's angles down, 

"And merge," he said, "in form and gloss 
The picturesque of man and man." 
We talk'd: the stream beneath us ran, 

The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss, 

Or cool'd within the gloomlag wave; 

And last, returning from afar. 

Before the crimson-circled star 
Had fall'n into her father's grave. 

And brushing ankle-deep in flowers. 
We heard behind the woodbine veil 
The milk that bubbled in the pail, 

And buzzings of the honeyed hours. 

XC. 

He tasted love with half his mind. 
Nor ever drank the inviolate spring 
Where Highest heaven, who first could fling 

This bitter seed among mankind; 



That could the dead, whose dying eyes 
Were closed with wail, resume their life, 
They would but find in child and wife 

An iron welcome when they rise : 

'T was well, indeed, when warm with wiuo, 
To pledge them with a kindly tear. 
To talk them o'er, to wish them here, 

To count their memories half divine ; 

But if they came who passed away. 
Behold their brides in other hands ; 
The hard heir strides about their lands, 

And will not yield them for a day. 

Yea, tlio' their sons were none of these, 
Not less the yet-loved sire would make 
Confusion worse than death, and shake 

The pillars of domestic peace. 

Ah dear, but come thou bac'k to me : 
Whatever change the years have wrought, 
1 find not yet one lonely thought 

That cries against my wish for thee. 

XCI. 

WuKN rosy plumelets tuft the larch, 
And rarely pipes the mounted thrush; 
Or underneath the barren bush 

Flits by the sea-blue bird of March : 

Come, wear the form by which I know 
Thy spirit in time among thy peers ; 
The hope of unaccomplish'd years 

Be large and lucid round thy brow. 

When summer's hourly-mellowing change 
May breathe, with many roses sweet, 
Upon the thousand waves of wheat, 

That ripple round the lonely grange ; 

Come : not in watches of the night. 
But where the sunbeam broodeth warm, 
C»nie, beauteous in thine after form. 

And like a flner light in light. 

XCII. 

If any vision should reveal 
Thy likeness, I might cinint it vain, 
As but the canker of the brain ; 

Yea, tho' it spake and made appeal 

To chances where our lots were cast 

Together in the days behind. 

I might but say, I hear a wind 
Of memory murmuring the past. 

Yea, tho' it spake and bared to view 
A fact within tho coming year; 
And tho' the months, revolving near, 

Should prove the phantom-warning true, 

They might not seem thy prophecies, 

But spiritual presentiments. 

And such refraction of events 
As often rises ere they rise. 

xcni. 

I BUAi-i, not see thee. Dare I say 
No spirit ever brake the band 
That stays him from the native land. 

Where first he walk'd when claspt iu clay? 

No visual shade of some one lost. 
But he, the Spirit himself, may come 
Where all the nerve of sense is numb 

Spirit to Spirit. Ghost to Ghost. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



121 



O, therefore from thy sightless range 

With gods in uuconjectured bliss, 

O, from the distance of the abyss 
Of tenfold-complicated change, 

Descend, and touch, and enter ; hear 
The wish too strong for words to name; 
That in this blindness of the frame 

My Ghost may feel that thine is near. 

XCIV. 

How pure at heart and sound in head. 

With what divine aflfections bold. 

Should be the man whose thought would hold 
An hour's communion with the dead. 

In vain shalt thou, or any, call 
The spirits from their golden day. 
Except, like them, thou too canst say, 

My spirit is at peace with all. 

They haunt the silence of the breast, 

Imaginations calm and fair. 

The memory like a cloudless air, 
The conscience as a sea at rest: 

But when the heart is full of din, 
And doubt beside the portal waits. 
They can but listen at the gates. 

And hear the household jar within. 

XCV. 
Bt night we linger'd on the lawn, 

For underfoot the herb was dry ; 

And genial warmth ; and o'er the sky 
The silvery haze of summer drawn ; 

And calm that let the tapers burn 
Unwavering : not a cricket chirr'd : 
The brook alone far-off was heard. 

And on the board the fluttering urn : 

And bats went round in fragrant skies. 
And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes 
That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes 

And woolly breasts and beaded eyes; 

While now we sang old songs that peal'd 
From knoll to knoll, where, couch'd at ease, 
The white kiue glimmer'd, and the trees 

Laid their dark arms about the field. 

But when those others, one by one. 
Withdrew themselves from me and night, 
And in the house light after light 

Went out, and I was all alone, 

A hunger seized my heart ; I read 
Of that glad year that once had been, 
In those fall'n leaves which kept their green, 

The noble letters of the dead : 

And strangely on the silence broke 
The silent-speaking words, and strange 
Was love's dumb cry defying change 

To test his worth ; and strangely spoke 

The faith, the vigor, bold to dwell 
On doubts that drive the coward back. 
And keen thro' wordy snares to track 

Suggestion to her inmost cell. 

So word by word, and line by line, 
The dead man touch'd me from the past. 
And all at once it seem'd at last 

His living soul was flash'd on mine, 



And mine in his was wound, and whirl'd 
About empyreal heights of thought, 
And came on that which is, and caught 

The deep pulsations of the world, 

Ionian music measuring out 
The steps of Time, the shocks of Chance, 
The blows of Death. At length my trance 

Was caucell'd, stricken thro' with doubt. 

Vague words ! but ah, how hard to frame 
In matter-moulded forms of speech. 
Or cv'n for intellect to reach 

Thro' memory that which I became : 

Till now the doubtful dusk reveal'd 
The knoll once more where, couch'd at east", 
The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees 

Laid their dark arms about the field : 

And, suck'd from out the distant gloom, 
A breeze began to tremble o'er 
The large leaves of the sycamore. 

And fluctuate all the still perfume. 

And gathering freshlier overhead, 
Rock'd the full-foliaged elms, and swung 
The heavy-folded rose, and flung 

The lilies to and fro, and said, 

"The dawn, the dawn," and died away; 
And East and West, without a breath, 
Mixt their dim lights, like life and death. 

To broaden into boundless day. 

XCVI. 

Yon say, but with no touch of scorn. 
Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes 
Are tender over drowning flies, 

You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 

I know not : one indeed I knew 
In many a subtle question versed, 
Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first. 

But ever strove to make it true : 

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, 

At last he beat his music out. 

There lives more faith in honest doubt, 
Believe me, than in half the creeds. 

He fought his doubts and gather'd strength, 
He would not make his judgment blind, 
He faced the spectres of the mind 

And laid them: thus he came at. length 

To find a stronger faith his own ; 
And Power was with him in the night. 
Which makes the darkness and the light. 

And dwells not in the light alone. 

But in the darkness and the cloud. 
As over Sinai's peaks of old. 
While Israel made their gods of gold, 

Altho' the trumpet blew so loud. 

XCVII. 

Mv love has talk'd with rocks and trees; 
He finds on misty mountain-ground 
His own vast shadow glory-crowu'd ; 

He sees himself in all he sees. 

Two partners of a married life, — 
I look'd on these, and thought of thee 
In vastness and in mystery, 

And of my spirit as of a wife. 



122 



IN MEMORIAIM. 



These two— they dwelt with ej'C ou eye, 
Their hearts of old have beat in tune, 
Their meetings made December June, 

Their every parting was to die. 

Their love has never past away ; 
The days she never can forget 
Are earnest that he loves her yet, 

Whate'er the faithless people say. 

Her life is lone, he sits apart, 
He loves her yet, she will not weep, 
Tho' rapt in matters dark and deep 

He seems to slight her simple heart. 

He thrids the labyrinth of the mind, 
He reads the secret of the star, 
He seems so near and yet so far. 

He looks so cold: she thinks him kind. 

She keeps the gift of years before, 

A wither'd violet is her bliss ; 

She knows not what his greatness is: 
For that, for all, she loves him more. 

For him she plays, to him she sings 
Of early faith and plighted vows ; 
She knows but matters of the house, 

And he, he knows a thousand things. 

Her faith is fist and cannot move. 
She darkly feels him great and wise. 
She dwells ou him with faithful eyes, 

"I cannot understand: I love." 

xcvni. 

Yor leave us : yon will see the Rhine, 
And those fair hills I sail'd below. 
When I was there with him ; and go 

By summer belts of wheat and vine 

To where he breathed his latest breath, 
That City. All her splendor seems 
No livelier than the wisp that gleams 

Ou Lethe in the eyes of Death. 

Let her great Danube rolling fair 
Enwind her isles, nnmark'd of me : 
I have not seen, I will not see 

Vienna; rather dream that there, 

A treble darkness, Evil haunts 

The birth, the bridal; friend from friend 

Is oftener parted, fathers bend 
Above more graves, a thousand wants 

Gnarr at the heels of men, and prey 
By each cold hearth, and sadness flings 
Her shadow on the blaze of kings : 

And yet nayself have heard him say. 

That not in any mother town 
With statelier progress to and fro 
The double tides of chariots flow 

By park and suburb under brown 

Of lustier leaves; nor more content. 
He told mc, lives in any crowd, 
When all is gay with lamps, and loud 

With sport and song, iu booth and tent. 

Imperial halls, or open plain ; 

And wheels the circled dance, and breaks 

The rocket molten into flakes 
Of crimson or iu emerald rain. 



XCIX. 

RisEST thou thus, dim dawn, again, 
So loud with voices of the birds. 
So thick with lowings of the herds, 

Day, when I lost the flower of men ; 

Who tremblest thro' thy darkling red 
On yon swoll'u brook that bubbles fijst, 
By meadows breathing of the past, 

And woodlands holy to the dead ; 

Who murmurest iu the foliaged eaves 
A song that slights the coming care, 
And Autumn laying here and there 

A flery finger ou the leaves ; 

Who wakenest with thy balmy breath, 
To myriads ou the genial earth. 
Memories of bridal, or of birth, 

And unto myriads more, of death 

O, wheresoever those may be, 
Betwixt the slumber of the poles. 
To-day they count as kindred souls; 

They know me not, but mourn with me. 

C. 

I oLiMi! the hill: from end to end 
Of all the landscape underneath, 
I find no place that does not breathe 

Some gracious memory of my friend ; 

No gray old grange, or lonely fold, 
Or low morass and whispiM'ing reed, 
Or simjile stile from mead to mead, 

Or sheepwalk up the windy wold ; 

No hoary knoll of ash and haw- 
That hears the latest linnet trill. 
Nor quarry trench'd along the hill, 

And haunted by the wrangling daw; 

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock; 
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 
To left and right thro' meadowy curves, 

That feed the mothers of the flock ; 

But each has pleased a kindred eye, 
And each reflects a kindlier day ; 
And, leaving these, to pass away, 

I think once more he seems to die. 

CI. 

Unwatcii'i>, the garden bough shall sway, 
The tender blossom flutter down. 
Unloved, that beech will gather brown. 

This majjle burn itself away ; 

Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair, 
Ray round with flames her disk of seed. 
And ninny a rose-carnation feed 

With summer spice the humming air ; 

Unloved, by many a sandy bar, 
The brook shall babble down the plain. 
At noon, or when the lesser wain 

Is twisting round the polar star; 

Uncared for, gird the windy grove. 
And flood the haunts of hern and crake f 
Or into silver arrows break 

The sailing moon in creek and cove; 

Till from the garden and the wild 

A fresh association blow. 

And year by year the landscape grow 
Familiar to the stranger's child : 



IN MEMOllIAM. 



123 



As year by year the laborer tills 
His wouted glebe, or lops the glades ; 
Aud year by year our memory fades 

From all the circle of the hills. 

CII. 

Wb leave the well-beloved place 
Where first we gazed iipou the sky ; 
The roofs, that heard our earliest cry, 

Will shelter oue of stranger race. 

We go. but ere we go from home, 
As down the garden-walks I move, 
Two spirits of a diverse love 

Contend for loving masterdom. 

One whispers, here thy boyhood sung 
Long since its matin song, aud heard 
The low love-lauguage of the bird 

111 native hazels tassel-hung. 

The other answers, " Yea, but here 
Thy feet have strayed in after hours 
With thy lost friend among the bowers, 

Aud this hath made them trebly dear." 

These two have striven half the day. 
And each prefers his separate claim, 
Poor rivals in a losing game. 

That will not yield each other way. 

I turn to go : my feet are set 

To leave the pleasant fields aud farms ; 

They mix in one another's arms 
To oue pure image of regret. 

cm. 

On that last uight before we went 
From out the doors where I was bred, 
I dream'd a vision of the dead, 

Which left my after-moru content. 

Methought I dwelt within a hall, 
Aud maidens with me: distant hills 
From hidden summits fed with rills 

A river sliding by the wall. 

The hall with harp and carol rang. 
They sang of what is wise and good 
And graceful. In the centre stood 

A statue veil'd, to which they sang; 

And which, tho' veil'd, was known to me, 
The shape of him I loved, and love 
Forever: then flew in a dove 

And brought a summons from the sea : 

And when they learnt that I must go, 
They wept and wail'd, but led the way 
To where a little shallop lay 

At auchor in the flood below ; 

And on by many a level mead, 
Aud shadowing blufl' that made the bauks. 
We glided winding under ranks 

Of iris, aud the golden reed ; 

And still as vaster grew the shore. 
And roll'd the floods in grander space. 
The maidens gather'd strength and grace 

And presence, lordlier thau before ; 

And I myself, who sat apart 

And watch'd them, wax'd in every limb ; 

I felt the thews of Anakira, 
The pulses of a Titan's heart ; 



As one would sing the death of war, 
And oue would chant the history 
Of that great race, which is to be, 

Aud one the shaping of a star; 

Until the forward-creeping tides 
Began to foam, and we to draw. 
From deep to deep, to where we saw 

A great ship lift her shining sides. 

The man we loved was there on deck, 
But thrice as large as mau he bent 
To greet us. Up the side I weut, 

Aud fell in silence on his neck : 

Whereat those maidens with one mind 
Bewail'd their lot ; I did them wrong : 
"We served thee heio," they said, "so long 

Aud wilt thou leave us uow behind ?" 

So rapt I was, they could uot win 

Au answer from my lips, but he 

Replying, "Enter likewise ye 
Aud go with us:" they enter'd in. 

And while the wind began to sweep 
A music out of sheet and shroud. 
We steer'd her toward a crimson cloud 

That laudlike slept along the deep. 

CIV. 

TuE time draws near the birth of Christ: 
The moon is hid, the uight is still ; 
A single church below the hill 

Is pealing, folded in the mist. 

A single peal of bells below, 
That wakens at this hour of rest 
A single murmur in the breast, 

That these are not the bells I know. 

Like strangers' voices here they sound. 
In lands where not a memory strays. 
Nor landmark breathes of other days, 

But all is new unhallow'd ground. 

CV. 

This holly by the cottage-eave, 
To-night, ungather'd, shall it stand: 
We live within the stranger's land, 

Aud straugely falls our Christmas-eve. 

Our father's dust is left alone 

And silent under other snows ; 

There iu due time the woodbine blows, 
The violet comes, but we are gone. 

No more shall wayward grief abuse 
The genial hour with mask and mime^ 
For change of place, like growth of time, 

Has broke the bond of dying use. 

Let cares that petty shadows cast, 
By which our lives are chiefly proved, 
A little spare the night I loved. 

And hold it solemn to the past. 

But let no footstep beat the floor. 
Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm ; 
For who would keep au ancient form 

Thro' which the spirit breathes no moref 

Be neither song, uor game, nor feast ; 

Nor harp be tonch'd, nor flute be blown ; 

No dance, no motion, save alone 
What lightens in the lucid east 



124 



IN MEMOKIAM. 



Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 

Long sleeps the summer in the seed; 

Run out your measured arcs, and lead 
The closing cycle rich in good. 

CVI. 

Ring out wild bells to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night ; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new. 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow: 
The year is going, let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor. 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slovvly dying cause. 
And ancient forms of party strife; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 
The fiiithless coldness of the times; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes. 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood. 

The civic slander and the spite ; 

Ring in the love of truth and right. 
Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old. 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the laud, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

CVII. 

It is the day when he was born, 

A bitter day that early sank 

Behind a purple-frosty bank 
Of vapor, leaving night forlorn. 

The time admits not flowers or leaves 
To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies 
The blast of North and East, and ice 

Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves, 

And bristles all the brakes and thorns 
To yon hard crescent, as she hangs 
Above the wood which grides and clangs 

Its Jeafless ribs and iron horns 

Together, in the drifts that pass 

To darken on the rolling brine 

That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, 
Arrange the board and brim the glass ; 

Bring in great logs and let them lie. 

To make a solid core of heat ; 

Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat 
Of all things ev'n as he vrere by ; 

We keep the day. With festal cheer, 
With books and music, surely we 
Will drink to him whate'er he be. 

And sing the songs he loved to hear. 



CVIII. 

I WILL not shut me from my kind, 

And, lest I stiften into stone, 

I will not eat my heart alone, 
Nor feed with sighs a passing wind : 

What profit lies in barren faith, 
And vacant yearning, tho' with might 
To scale the heaven's highest height. 

Or dive below the wells of Death ? 

What find I in the highest place, 
But mine own phantom chanting hymns? 
And on the depths of death there swims 

The reflex of a human face. 

I '11 rather take what fruit may be 
Of sorrow under human skies : 
'T is held that sorrow makes us wise. 

Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. 

CIX. 

Heaut-affltiencf, in discursive talk 
From household fountains never dry; 
The critic clearness of an eye. 

That saw thro' all the Muses' walk; 

Seraphic intellect and force 

To seize and throw the doubts of man t 

Impassion'd logic, which outran 
The hearer in its fiery course ; 

High nature amorous of the good, 
But touch 'd with no ascetic gloom; 
And passion pure in snowy bloom 

Thro' all the years of April blood ; 

A love of freedom rarely felt. 
Of freedom in her regal seat 
Of England ; not the school-boy heat, 

The blind hysterics of the Celt ; 

And manhood fused with female grace 
In such a sort, the child would twine 
A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine, 

And find his comfort in thy face ; 

All these have been, and thee mine eyes 
Have look'd on : if they look'd in vain, 
My shame is greater who remain, 

Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 

ex. 

Tuv converse drew us with delight, 
The men of rathe and riper years: 
The feeble soul, a haunt of fears. 

Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 

On thee the loyal-hearted hung. 
The proud was half disarm'd of pride, 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 

To flicker with his double tongue. 

The stern were mild when thou v.ert bj', 
The flippant i)ut himself to school 
And heard thee, and the brazen fool 

Was soften'd, and he knew not why ; 

While I, thy dearest, sat apart. 
And felt thy triumph was as mine ; 
And loved them more, that they were thine. 

The graceful ta'it, the Christian art ; 

Not mine the sweetness or the skill 
But mine the love that will not tire. 
And, born of love, the vague desire 

That spurs an imitative will. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



V2^ 



CXI. 

TuE churl in spirit, up or down 
Along tlie scale of ranks, thro' all, 
To him who grasps a golden ball, 

By blood a king, ai heart a clown ; 

The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil 
His want; in forms for fashion's sake. 
Will let his coltish nature break 

At seasons thro' the gilded pale: 

For who can always act ? l)ut he. 
To whom a thousand memories call, 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seeni'd to be, 

Best seem'd the thing he was, and join'd 
Each ofiice of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the flower 

And native growth of noble mind ; 

Nor ever narrowness or spite, 
Or villain fimcy fleeting by, 
Drew in the expression of an eye. 

Where God and Nature met in light; 

And thus he bore without abuse 
The grand old name of gentleman, 
Defameci by every charlatan, 

And soil'd with all ignoble use. 

CXII. 

High wisdom holds my wisdom less, 
That I, who gaze with temperate eyes 
On glorious insuflieiencies. 

Set light by narrower perfectness. 

But thou, that fillest all the room 
Of all my love, art reason why 
I seem to cast a careless eye 

On souls, the lesser lords of doom. 

For what wert thou ? some novel power 
Sprang up forever at a touch, 
And hope could never hope too much, 

In watching thee from hour to hour. 

Large elements in order brought. 
And tracts of cahn from tempest made, 
And world-wide fluctuation sway'd 

In vassal tides that follow'd thought. 

cxiir. 

'T IS held that sorrow makes us wise ; 
Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee 
Which not alone had guided me, 

But served the seasons that may rise ; 

For can I doubt who knew thee keen 
In intellect, with force and skill 
To strive, to fashion, to fulfil— 

I doubt not what thou wouldst have been: 

A life in civic action warm, 
A soul on highest mission sent, 
A potent voice of Parliament, 

A pillar steadfast iu the storm. 

Should licensed boldness gather force. 
Becoming, when the time has birth, 
A lever to uplift the earth 

And roll it iu another course, 

With thousand shocks that come and go, 
With agonies, with energies, 
With overthrowings, and with cries, 

And undulations to and fro. 



CXIV. 

Who loves not Knowledge ? Who shall raii 
Against her beauty ? May she mix 
W^ith men and prosper ! Who shall fix 

Her pillars ? Let her work prevail. 

But on her forehead sits a fire: 
She sets her forward countenance 
And leaps into the future chance, 

Submitting all things to desire. 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain. 
She cannot fight the fear of death. 
What is she, cut from love and faith. 

But some wild Pallas from the brain 

Of Demons ? flery-hot to burst 
All harriers in her onward race 
For power. Let her know her place; 

She is the second, not the first. 

A higher hand must make her mild. 
If all be not in vain ; and guide 
Her footsteps, moving side by side 

With wisdom, like the younger child: 

For she is earthly of the mind. 
But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. 
O friend, who camest to thy goal 

So early, leaving me behind, 

I would the great world grew like thee. 
Who grewest not alone in power 
And kncwledge, but by year and hour 

In reverence and iu charity. 

cxv. 

Now fades the last long streak of snow. 
Now bourgeons every maze of quick 
About the flowering squares, and thic's! 

By ashen roota the violets blow. 

Now rings the woodland loud and long, 
The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
And drown'd in yonder living blue 

The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea. 
The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
And milkier every milky sail 

On winding stream or distant sea; 

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 
In yonder gleaming green, and fly 
The happy birds, that change their sky 

To build and brood ; that live their lives 

From land to land ; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too; and my regret 
Becomes an April violet, 

And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

CXVI. 

Is it, then, regret for buried time 
That kecnlier in sweet April wakes, 
And meets the year, and gives and takes 

The colors of the crescent prime? 

Not all : the songs, the stirring air. 
The life re-orient out of dust. 
Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust 

In that which made the world so fair. 

Not all regret : the face will shine 

LTpon me, while I muse alone ; 

And that dear voice I once have known 
Still speak to me of me and mine: 



126 



IN MEMORIAM, 



Yet less of sorrow lives iii me 
For clays of happy commuue dead ; 
Less yearniiif; for the friendship fled, 

Than some stroug boud which is to be. 

CXVII. 

O PAYS and hours, your work is this, 
To hold me from my proper place, 
A little while from his embrace. 

For fuller gain of after bliss ; 

That out of distance might ensue 
Desire ot nearness doubly sweet : 
And unto meeting when we meet, 

Delight a hundred-fold accrue. 

For every grain of sand that runs. 
And every span of shade that steals. 
And every kiss of toothed wheels. 

And all the courses of the suns. 

CXVIII. 

Contemplate all this work of Time, 
The giant laboring in his youth : 
Nor dream of human love and truth, 

As dying Nature's earth and lime ; 

But trust that those we call the dead 

Are breathers of an ampler day. 

Forever nobler ends. They say, 
The solid earth whereon we tread 

In tracts of fluent heat began, 
And grew to seeming-random forms. 
The seeming prey of cyclic storms. 

Till at the last arose the man ; 

Who throve and branch'd from clime to clime 

The herald of a higher race, 

And of himself in higher place 
If so he type this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more • 
Or, crown'd with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and show 

That life is not as idle ore. 

But iron dug from central gloom. 
And heated hot with burning fears, 
And dipt in baths of hissing tears. 

And batter'd with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 
The reeling Faun, the sensual feast ; 
Move upward, working out the beast, 

And let the ape and tiger die. 

CXIX. 

Doors, where my heart was used to beat 
So quickly, not as one that weeps 
I come once more; the city sleeps; 

I smell the meadow in the street; 

I hear a chirp of birds; I see 

Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawu 

A light-blue lane of early dawn. 
And think of early days and thee, 

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland. 
And bright the friendship of thine eye: 
And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh 

T take the pressure of thine hand. 

cxx. 

I TRTTRT I have not wasted breath ; 
I think we are not Avholly brain. 
Magnetic mockeries; not in vain, 

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death ; 



Not only cunning casts in clay : 
Let Science prove we are, and then 
What matters Science unto men, 

At least to me? I would not stay. 

Let him, the wiser man who springs 
Hereafter, up from childhood shape 
His action, like the greater ape, 

But I was born to other things. 

CXXI. 

Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun. 
And ready, thou, to die with him. 
Thou watchest ail things ever dim 

And dimmer, and a glory done : 

The team is loosen'd from the wain. 
The boat is drawn upon the shore ; 
Thou listenest to the closing door. 

And lite is darken'd in the brain. 

Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night. 
By thee the world's great work is heard 
Beginning, and the wakeful bird: 

Behind thee comes the greater light : 

The market boat is on the stream. 
And voices hail it from the brink; 
Thou hear'st the village hammer cliulj:, 

And see'st the moving of the team. 

Sweet Ilesper-Phosphor, double name 
For what is one, the first, the last. 
Thou, like my present and my past, 

Thy place is changed , thou art the same. 

CXXII. 

O, WAST thou with me, dearest, then. 
While I rose up against my doom, 
And yearn'd to burst the folded gloom. 

To bare the eternal Heavens again. 

To feel once more, in placid awe, 
The strong imagination roll 
A sphere of stars about my soul, 

In all her motion one with law. 

If thou wert with me, and the grave 
Divide us not, be with me now. 
And enter in at breast and brow, 

Till all my blood, a fuller wave. 

Be quickeu'd with a livelier breath, 

And like an inconsiderate boy. 

As in the former flash of joy, 
I slip the thoughts of life and death i 

And all the breeze of Fancy blows. 
And every dew-drop paints a bow. 
The wizard lightnings deeply glow. 

And every thought breaks out a rose. 

CXXIIL 

TuF.HE rolls the deep where grew the tree. 

O earth, what changes thou hast seen ! 

There where the long street roars, hath beec 
The stillness of the central sea. 

The hills are shadows, and they flow 
From form to form, and nothing stands; 
They melt like mist, the solid lands, 

Like clouds they shape themselves and go. 

But in my spirit will 1 dwell, 

And dream my dream, and hold it true; 

For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, 
I cannot think the thing farewell. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



127 



CXXIV. 

That which we dare invoke to bless ; 

Our dearest faitli ; our ghastliest doubt; 

He, They, One, All ; within, without ; 
The Power iu darkness whom we guess ; 

I found Him not iu world or snn, 

Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye: 
Nor thro' the questions men may try, 
The petty cobwebs we have spun : 

If e'er, when faith had fall'n asleep, 
I heard a voice, " Believe no more," 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled in the Godless deep ; 

A warmth within the breast would melt 
The freezing reason's colder part. 
And like a man in wrath the heart 

Stood up and answer'd, "I have felt." 

No, like a child in doubt and fear : 
But that blind clamor made me wise: 
Then was I as a child that cries. 

But, crying, knows his father near ; 

And what I am beheld again 
What is, and no man understands ; 
And out of darkness came the hands 

That reach thro' nature, moulding men. 

CXXV. 

Whatever I have said or sung. 
Some bitter notes my harp would give. 
Yea, tho' theie often seem'd to live 

A contradiction on the tongue. 

Yet Hope had never lost her youth ; 

She did but look thro' dimmer eyes ; 

Or Love but play'd with gracious lies 
Because he felt so fix'd iu truth : 

And if the song were full of care. 
He breathed the spirit of the song; 
And if the words were sweet and strong. 

He set his royal signet there ; 

Abiding with me till I sail 
To seek thee on the mystic deeps, 
And this electric force, that keeps 

A thousand pulses dancing, fail. 

CXXVI. 

LovK is and was my Lord and King, 
And in his presence I attend 
To hear the tidings of my friend. 

Which every hour his couriers bring. 

Love is and was my King and Lord, 
And wili be, tho' as yet I keej) 
Within his court on earth, and sleep 

Encorapass'd by his faithful guard, 

And hear at times a sentinel 
Who moves about from place to place. 
And whispers to the worlds of space, 

In the deep night, that all is well. 

cxxvn. 

And all is well, tho' faith and form 
Be suuder'd iu the night of fear : 
Well roars the storm to those that hear 

A deeper voice across the storm. 

Proclaiming social truth shall spread. 
And justice, ev'n tho' thrice again 
The red fool-fury of the Seine 

Should pile her barricades with dead. 

9 



But ill for him that wears a crown, 
And him, the lazar, in his rags : 
They tremble, the sustaining crags; 

The spires of ice are toppled dovi'n, 

And molten up, and roar in flood ; 
The fortress crashes from on high. 
The brute earth lightens to the sky, 

And the great ^ou sinks iu blood, 

And compass'd by the flres of Hell; 
While thou, dear spirit, happy star, 
O'erlook'st the tumult from afar. 

And srailest, knowing all is well. 

cxxvin. 

TuF. love that rose on stronger wings, 
Unpalsied when we met with Death, 
Is comrade of the lesser faith 

That sees the course of human things. 

No doubt vast eddies iu the flood 
Of onward time shall yet be made, 
And throned races may degrade ; 

Yet, O ye mysteries of good. 

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear 
If all your office had to do 
With old results that look like new; 

If this were all your mission here. 

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword. 
To fool the crowd with glorious lies, 
To cleave a creed in sects and cries, 

To change the bearing of a word. 

To shift an arbitrary power. 
To cramp the student at his desk. 
To make old bareness picturesque 

And tuft with grass a feudal tower; 

Why "then my scorn might well desceuij 
On you and yours. 1 see iu part 
That all, as in some piece of art, 

Is toil cooperaut to au end. 

CXXIX. 

Dear friend, far off", my lost desire. 
So far, so near iu woe and weal ; 

loved the most, when most I feel 
There is a lower and a higher; 

Known and unknown ; human, divine ; 

Sweet human hand and lips and eye ; 

Dear heavenly friend that canst not di(» 
Mine, mine, forever, ever mine ; 

Strange friend, past, present, and to bo; 

Love deeplier, darklier understood ; 

Behold, I dream a dream of good, 
And mingle all the world with the«^ 

cxxx. 

Tnv voice is on the rolling air; 

1 hear thee where the waters run ; 
Thou standest in the rising sun. 

And iu the setting thou art fair. 

What art thou then ? I cannot guessp -, 
But tho' I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee some diff"usi>'e power, 

I do not therefore love thee less : 

My love involves the love before ; 

My love is vaster passion now; 

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 



128 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Far off thou art, but ever uigh ; 

I have thee still, aud I rejoice ; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice; 
I shall uot lose thee tho' I die. 

CXXXI. 

O LIVING will that Shalt endure 
Wheii all that seems shall suffer shock, 
Kise iu tlie spiritual rock, 

Flow thro' our deeds aud make them pure, 

That we may lift from out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquer'd years 

To one that with us worlcs, and trusts, 

With faith that comes of self-control, 
The truths that never can be proved 
Until we close with all we loved. 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 



O TEUE and tried, so well and long, 

Demand uot thou a marriage lay; 

In that it is thy marriage day 
Is music more than any song. 

Nor have I felt so much of bliss 
Since tirst he told me that he loved 
A daughter of our house ; nor proved 

Since that dark day a day like this ; 

Tho' I since then have uumber'd o'er 
Some thrice three years: they went and came. 
Remade the blood and changed the frame, 

Aud yet is love not less, but more ; 

No longer caring to embalm 

In dying songs a dead regret. 

But like a statue solid-set. 
And moulded in colossal calm. 

Regret is dead, but love is more 
Than in the summers that are flown. 
For I myself with these have grown 

To something greater than before ; 

VVhich makes appear the songs I made 
As echoes out of weaker times. 
As half but idle brawling rhymes. 

The sport of random sun and shade. 

But where is she, the bridal flower. 
That must be made a wife ere noon? 
She enters, glowing like the moon 

Of Eden on its bridal bower : 

On me she bends her blissful eyes. 
And then on thee ; they meet thy look 
And brighten like the star that shook 

Betwixt the palms of paradise. 

O when her life was yet iu bud. 

He too foretold the perfect rose. 

For thee she grew, for thee she grows 
Forever, and as fair as good. 

And thou art worthy ; full of power ; 
As gentle ; liberal-minded, great, 
Consistent ; wearing all that weight 

Of learning lightly like a flower. 

But now set out: the noon is near. 
And I must give away the bride; 
She fears not, or with thee beside 

And me behind her, will uot fear: 



For I that danced her on my knee, 
That watch'd her on her nurse's arm, 
That shielded all her life from harm. 

At last must part with her to thee ; 

Now waiting to be made a wife. 
Her feet, my darling, on the dead ; 
Their pensive tablets round her hsad, 

Aud the most living words of life 

Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, 
The " wilt thou," answer'd, and again 
The "wilt thou" ask'd till out of twain 

Her sweet " I will " has made ye one. 

Now sign your names, which shall be read. 
Mute symbols of a joyful morn. 
By village ej'es as yet unborn ; 

The names are sigu'd, and overhead 

Begins the clash aud clang that tells 
The joy to every wandering breeze ; 
The blind wall rocks, aud on the trees 

The dead leaf trembles to the bells. 

O happy hour, and happier hours 
Await them. Many a merry face 
Salutes them— maidens of the place. 

That pelt us iu the porch with flowers. 

O happy hour, behold the bride 
With him to whom her hand I gave. 
They leave the porch, they pass the grave 

That has to-day its sunny side. 

To-day the grave is bright for me. 
For them the light of life increased, 
Who stay to share the morning feast, 

Who rest to-night beside the sea. 

Let all my genial spirits advance 
To meet aud greet a whiter sun ; 
My drooping memory will not shun 

The foaming grape of eastern Franca. 

It circles round, and fancy plays. 
And hearts are warm'd, and faces bloom 
As drinking health to bride and groom 

We wish them store of happy days. 

Nor count me all to blame if I 
Conjecture of a stiller guest. 
Perchance, perchance, among the rest, 

Aud, tho' in silence, wishing joy. 

But they must go, the time draws on, 
And those white-favor'd horses wait ; 
They rise, but linger; it is late; 

Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. 

A shade falls on us like the dark 
From little cloudlets on the grass, 
But sweeps away as out wc pass 

To range the woods, to roam the park, 

Discussing how their courtship grew, 
Aud taik of others that are wed. 
And how she look'd, and what he said. 

And back we come at fall of dew. 

Again the feast, the speech, the glee. 
The shade of passing thought, the wealth 
Of words and wit, the double health. 

The crowuiug cup, the three-times-three, 



MAUD. 



123 



And last the diiuce ;— till I retire : 
Dumb is that tower which spake so loud, 
And high in heaven the streaming cloud, 

And on the downs a rising fire ; 

And rise, O moou, from yonder down, 
Till over down and over dale 
All night the sliining vapor sail 

And pass the silent-lighted town, 

The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, 
And catch at every mountain head, 
And o'er the friths that branch and spread 

Their sleeping silver thro' the hills ; 

And touch with shade the bridal doors. 
With tender gloom the roof, the wall ; 
And breaking let the splendor fall 

To spangle all the happy shores 

By which they rest, and ocean sounds, 
And, star and system rolling past, 
A soul shall draw from out the vast 

And strike his being into bounds, 



And, moved thro' life of lower phase. 
Result in man, be bom and think, 
And act and love, a closer link 

Betwixt us and the crowning race 

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look 
On knowledge ; under whose command 
Is Earth and Earth's, and in ?heir hand 

Is Nature like an open book ; 

No longer half-akin to brute. 
For all we thought and loved and did, 
And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed 

Of what in them is flower and fruit; 

Whereof the man, that with me trod 
This planet, was a noble type 
Appearing ere the times were ripe. 

That friend of mine who lives in God, 

That God, which ever lives and loves, 
One God, one law, one element. 
And one far-off divine event, 

To which the whole creation moves. 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS 



MAUD. 



1. 



I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little wood. 
Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath. 
The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, 
And Echo there, whatever is askd her, answers "Death." 



For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, 

His who had given me life— O father ! O God ! was it well ? 

Mangled, and flatteu'd, and crush'd, and dinted into the ground: 
There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell. 



Did he fling himself down ? who knows ? for a vast speculation had fall'd, 
And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever wann'd with despair, 
And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken worldling wail'd, 
And the flying gold of the ruiu'd woodlands drove thro' the air. 



I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirr'd 
By a shufiled step, by a dead weight trail'd, by a whisper'd fright. 
And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as I heard 
The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering night. 



Villany somewhere ! whose ? One says, we are villains all. 
Not he: his honest fame should at least by me be maintain'd : 
But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the Hall, 
Dropt off gorged fi-om a scheme that had left us flaccid and draiu'd. 



Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace ? we have made them a curstj 

Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own ; 

And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse 

Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone ? 



130 MAUD. 

T. 

But these are the days of advance, the works of the meu of miud, 

When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's ware or his word? 

Is it peace or war? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind 

The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword. 



Sooner or later I too may passively take the print 

Of the golden age — why not? I have neither ho])e nor trust. 

May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint. 

Cheat and be cheated, and die: who knows? we are ashes and dust. 



Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by. 
When the poor are hovell'd and hustled together, each sex, like swine, 
When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie ; 
Peace in her vineyard — yes ! — but a conipauy forges the wine. 

10. 

And the vitriol madness flushes np in the ruffian's head. 
Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife, 
While chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread, 
And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life. 

11. 

And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the villanous centre-bits 
Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights, 
While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as he sits 
To pestle a poisou'd poison behind his crimson lights. 

12. 

When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee, 
And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children's bones, 
Is it peace or war? better, war! loud war by land and by sea. 
War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones. 

13. 

For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill, 
And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam, 
That the smooth-faced snub-nosed rogue would leap from his counter and til 
And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yardwand, home. — 

14. 

What! am I raging alone as my father raged in his mood? 
Must / too creep to tJie hollow and dash myself down and die 
Rather th.au hold by the law that I made, nevermore to brood 
On a horror of shatter'd limbs and a wretched swindler's lie ? 

15. 

Would there be sorrow for mcf there was love in the passionate shriek. 
Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the grave- 
Wrapt in a cloak, as I sr.w him, and thought he would rise and speak 
And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he used to rave. 

IG. 

I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am sick of the moor and the main. 
Why should I stay ? can a sweeter chance ever come to me here ? 
O, having the nerv(!s of motion as well as the nerves of pain. 
Were it not wise if I fled from the place and the pit and the fear? 

IT. 

There are workmen up at the Ilall : they are coming back from abroad ; 
The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a milliounairc : 
I have heard, I know not whence, of the singular beauty of Maud ; 
I play'd with the girl when a child ; she promised then to be fair. 

IS. 

Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles and childish escapes, 
Maud the delight of the village, the ringing joy of the Hall, 
Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when my father dangled the grapes. 
Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-faced darling of all,— 



MAUD. 131 

19. 
What is she uow ? My dreams arc bad. She may bring me a curse. 
No, there is fatter game on the moor ; she will let me alone. 
Thauks, for the tiend best knows whether woman or man be the wors« 
I will bury myself in my book>', and the Devil may pipe to his own. 

II. 

Long have I sigh'd for a calm : God grant I may find it at last ! 

It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither savor uoi" salt, 

But a cold and clear-cut face, as I found when her carriage past, 

Perfectly beautiful: let it be granted her: where is the fault? 

All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen) 

Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, 

Dead perfection, no more ; nothing more, if it had not been 

For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's delect of the rose, 

Or an undcrlip, you may call it a little too ripe, too full. 

Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose, 

From which I escaped heart-free, with the least little touch of spieen. 

III. 

CoL]> and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly meek. 
Breaking a slumber in which all spleenful folly was drowu'd, 
Pale with the golden beam of an eyelash dead on the cheek. 
Passionless, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom profound ; 
Womanlike, taking revenge too deep for a transient wrong 
Done but in thought to your beauty, and ever as pale as before 
Growing and fading and growing upon me without a sound. 
Luminous, gemlike, ghostlike, deathlike, half the night long 
Growing and fading and growing, till I could bear it no more. 
But arose, and all by myself in my own dark garden ground, 
Listening now to the tide in its broad-flung shipwrecking roar. 
Now to the scream of a madden'd beach dragg'd down by the wave, 
Walk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly glimmer, and found 
The shining daffodil dead, and Orion low in his grave. 

IV. 

1. 

A MILLION emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime 
In the little grove where I sit~ah, wherefoie cannot I be 
Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful season bland, 
When the far-oft" sail is blown by the breeze of a softer clime, 
Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of sea. 
The silent sapphire-spangled marriage ring of the land ? 

2. 
Below rae, there, is the village, and looks how quiet and small ! 
And yet bubbles o'er like a city, with gossip, scandal, and spite ; 
And Jack on his alehouse bench has as many lies as a Czar; 
And here on the landward side, by a red rock, glimmers the Hall ; 
And up in the high Hall-garden I see her pass like a light: 
But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my leading star ! 

3. 

When have I bow'd to her father, the wrinkled head of the race ? 

I met her to-day with her brother, but not to her brother I bow'd ; 

I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on the moor ; 

Bui the fire of a foolish pride flash'd over her beautiful face. 

O child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being so proud : 

Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am nameless and poor. 



I keep bnt a man and a maid, ever ready to slander and steal ; 

I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or like 

A wiser epicurean, and let the world have its way: 

For nature is one with rapine, a harm uo preacher can heal ; 

The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow spear'd by the shrikf. 

And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey. 

5. 

We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her flower ; 
Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at a game 
That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed? 
Ah j'et, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour ; 
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother's shame; 
However we brave 'i out, we men are a little breed. 



132 



MAUD. 



A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of Earth, 
For him did his high sun flame, and his river billowing ran, 
And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's crowning race. 
As nine mouths go to the shaping an infant ripe for his birth, 
So mauj' a million of ages have gone to the making of mau: 
He now is first, but. is he the last ? is he not too base ? 

7. 
The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain, 
An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor; 
The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd iuto folly and vice. 
I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate brain ; 
For not to desire or admire, if a mau could learn it, were more 
Thau to walk all day like the sultan of old in a garden of spice. 



For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hia by the veil. 

Who liuows the ways of the world, how God will bring them about? 

Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide. 

Shall I weep if a Poland fall ? shall I shriek if a Hungary fail ? 

Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod or with knout? 

I have not made the world, and He that made it will guide. 

9. 

Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet woodland ways, 

Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my lot, 

Far-off from the clamor of liars belied in the hubbub of lies ,- 

From the long-neck'd geese of the world that are ever hissing dispraise, 

Because their natures are little, and, whether he heed it or not. 

Where each mau walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies. 

10. 
And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love, 
The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill. 
Ah Maud, you milk-white fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife. 
Your mother is mute in her grave as her image in marble above ; 
Your father is ever in London, you wander aboiit at your will; 
Y'ou have but fed on the roses, and lain in the lilies of life. 



V. 

1. 

A VOTOE by the cedar-tree. 

In the meadow under the Hall ! 

She is singing an air that is known to me, 

A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 

A martial song like a trumpet's call ! 

Singing alone in tlie morning of life, 

In the happy morning of life and of May, 

l^inging of men that in battle arra}-, 

Ready in heart and ready in hand, 

March with banner and bugle and fife 

To the death, for their native land. 



Maud with her exquisite face. 
And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky. 
And feet like sunny gems on an English green, 
Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, 
Siiging of Death, and of Honor that cannot die. 
Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean. 
And myself so languid and base. 

3. 

Silence, beautiful voice'. 

Be still, for you only trouble the mind 

With a joy in which i cannot rejoice, 

A glory I shall not find. 

Still ! I will hear you no more, 

For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice 

But to move to the meadow and fall before 

Ilcr feet on the meadow grass, and adore. 

Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind, 

Not her, not her, but a voice. 



VL 

1. 

MoENiNQ arises stormy and pale, 

No sun, but a wannish glare 

In fold upon fold of hueless cloud, 

And the budded peaks of the wood are bow'd 

Caught and cuft"'d by the gale : 

I had fancied it would be fair. 

2. 

U'hom but Maud should I meet 

Last night, when the sunset burn'd 

On the blossom'd gable-ends 

At the head of the village street. 

Whom but Maud should I meet? 

And she touch'd my hand with a smile SO sweet 

She made me divine amends 

For a courtesy not return'd. 



And thus a delicate spark 

Of glowing and growing light 

Thro' the livelong hours of the dark 

Kept itself warm in the heart of my dreams, 

Ready to burst in a color'd flame; 

Till at last, when the morning came 

In a cloud, it faded, and seems 

But an ashen-gray delight. 



What if with her sunny hair. 
And smile as sunny as cold. 
She meant to weave me a snaro 
Of some coquettish deceit. 



MAUD. 



133 



Cleopatra-like as of old 

To eutaugle me when we met, 

To have her lion roll iu a silkeu net, 

And fawn at a victor's ieet. 

5. 

Ah, what shall I be at fifty 

Should Nature keep me alive, 

If I find the world so bitter 

When I am but twenty-flve? 

i'et, if she were not a cheat, 

If Maud were all that she seem'd. 

And her smile were all that I drcam'd, 

Then the -world were not so bitter 

But a smile could make it sweet. 



What if tho' her eye seem'd full 
Of a kind Intent to me. 
What if that dandy-despot, he, 
That jewcird mass of millinery. 
That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian Bull 
Smelling of musk and of insolence, 
Her brother, from whom I keep aloof, 
Who wants the finer politic sense 
To mask, tho' but in his own behoof, 
With a glassy smile his brutal scorn, — 
What if he had told her yestermorn 
How prettily for his own sweet sake 
A face of tenderness might be feign'd, 
And a moist mirage in desert eyes. 
That so, when the rotten hustings shake 
In another month to his brazen lies, 
A wretched vote may be gaiu'd. 



For a raven ever croaks, at my side, 

Keep watch and ward, keep watch and ward. 

Or thou wilt prove their tool. 

Yea too, myself from myself I guard. 

For often a man's own angry pride 

Is cap and bells for a fool. 



Perhaps the smile and tender tone 

Came out ot her pitying womanhood, 

For am I not, am 1 not, here alone 

So many a summer since she died, 

My mother, who was so gentle and good ? 

Living alone in an empty honse. 

Here half-hid iu the gleaming wood, 

Where I hear the dead at midday moan. 

And the shrieking rush of the wainscot mouse. 

And my own sad name in corners cried. 

When the shiver of dancing leaves is thrown 

About its echoing chambers wide, 

Till a morbid hate and horror have grown 

Of a world in which I have hardly mixt, 

And a men-bid eating lichen list 

On a heart half-turu'd to stone. 



heart of stone, are yon flesh, and caught 
By that you swore to withstand ? 

For what was it else within me wrought 
But, I fear, the new strong wine of love. 
That made my tongue so stammer and trip 
When I saw the treasured splendor, her hand. 
Come sliding out of her sacred glove, 
And the sunlight broke from her lip ? 

10. 

1 have play'd with her when a child ; 
She remembers it now we meet. 

Ah well, well, well, I may be beguiled 
By some coquettish deceit. 
Yet, if she were not a cheat, 



If Maud were all that she seem'd. 
And her smile had all that I dream'd, 
Then the world were not so bitter 
But a smile could make it sweet. 

VII. 
1. 

Did I hear it halt in a doze 
Long since, I know not where? 

Did I dream it an hour ago, 
When asleep in this arm- chair? 



Men were drinking together, 
Drinking and talking of me ; 

" Well, if it prove a girl, the boy 
Will have plenty: so let it be." 



Is it an echo of something 
Read with a boy's delight, 

Viziers nodding together 
In some Arabian night ? 



Strange, that I hear two men. 

Somewhere, talking of me ; 
"Well, if it prove a girl, my boy 

Will have plenty: so let it Ixj." 

VIII. 

She came to the village church, 

And sat by a pillar alone ; 

An angel watching an urn 

Wept over her, carved in stone ; 

And once, but once, she lifted her eyes, 

And suddenly, sweetly, strangely blush'd 

To find they were met by my own ; 

And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat stronger 

And thicker, until I heard no longer 

The snowy-banded, dilettante, 

Delicate-handed priest intone; 

And thought, is it pride, and mused and sigh'd 

"No surely, now it cannot be pride." 

IX. 

I WAS walking a mile. 
More than a mile from the shore. 
The sun look'd out with a smile 
Betwixt the cloud and the moor. 
And riding at set of day 
Over the dark moor land, 
Kapidly riding far away, 
She waved to me with her hand. 
There were two at her side, 
Something flash'd in the sun, 
Down by the hill I saw them rid*!, 
In a moment they were gone : 
Like a sudden spark 
Struck vainly in the night. 
And back returus the dark 
With no mcne hope of light. 



X. 



SioK, am I sick of a jealous dread ? 
Was not one of the two at her side 
This new-made lord, whose splendor plucks 
The slavish hat from the villager's head ? 
Whose old grandfather has lately died. 
Gone to a blacker i)it, for whom 
Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks 
And laying his trams in a poison'd gloom 
Wrought, till he crept from a gutted mini 
Master of half a servile shire, 



134 



MAUD. 



Aud left his coal all tiiru'd into gold 
To a grandson, first of his noble line, 
Rich in the grace ail women desire, 
Strong in the power that all men adore, 
And simper and set their voices lower, 
Aud soften as if to a girl, aud hold 
Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine, 
Seeing his gewgaw castle shine, 
New as his title, built last year. 
There amid perky larches aud pine, 
Aud over the sullen-purple moor 
(Look at it) pricking a cockney ear. 

2. 

What, has he found my jewel out? 
For one of the two that rode at her side 
Bound for the Hall, I am sure was he : 
Bound for the Hall, and I thiuk for a bride. 
Blithe would her brother's acceptance be. 
Maud could be gracious too, no doubt, 
To a lord, a captain, a padded shape, 
A bought commission, a waxen face, 
A rabbit mouth that is ever agape — 
Bought? what is it he cannot buy? 
And therefore splenetic, personal, base, 
A wounded thing with a rancorous cry, 
At war with myself and a wretched race. 
Sick, sick to the heart of life, am I. 



Last week came one to the county town, 
To preach our poor little army down, 
And play the game of the despot kings, 
Tho' the state has done it aud thrice as well : 
This broad-brim'd hawker ot holy things. 
Whose ear is stufTd with his cotton, and ring 
Even in dreams to the chink of his pence. 
This huckster put down war ! can he tell 
Whether war be a cause or a consequence? 
Put down the passions that make earth Hell ! 
Down with ambition, avarice, pride. 
Jealousy, down ! cut off from the mind 
The bitter springs of anger and fear ; 
Down too, down at your own fireside, 
With the evil tongue and the evil ear, 
For each is at war with mankind. 



I wish I could hear again 

The chivalrous battle-song 

That she warbled alone in her joy ! 

I might persuade myself then 

She would not do herself this great wrong 

To take a wanton, dissolute boy 

For a man and leader of men. 

5. 

Ah God, foi- a man with heart, head, hand. 
Like some of the simple great ones gone 
For ever and ever by. 
One still strong man in a blatant land. 
Whatever they call him, what care I, 
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, — oue 
Who can rule aud dare not lie. 



And ah for a man to arise in me. 
That the man I am may cease to be ' 

XL 

1. 

O LET the solid ground 
Not fail beneath my feet 

Before my life has found 
What some have fouud so sweet; 



Then let come what come may, 
What matter if I go mad, 
I shall have had my day. 



Let the sweet heavens endure. 
Not close and darken above me 

Before I am quite quite sure 
That there is one to love me ; 

Then let come what come may 

To a life that has been so sad, 

I shall have had my day. 

XIL 

1. 
BicDs in the high Hall-garden 

When twilight was falling, 
Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 

They were crying aud calling. 

2. 
Where was Maud ? in onr wood ; 

And I, who else, was with her, 
Gathering woodland lilies, 

Myriads blow together. 



Birds in our woods sang 
Ringing thro' the valleys, 

Maud is here, here, here 
In among the lilies. 



I kiss'd her slender hana. 
She took the kiss sedately 

Maud is not seventeen, 
But she is tall and stately 

5. 
I to cry out on pride 

Who have won her fiivor ! 
O Maud were sure of Heaven 

If lowliness could save her. 



I know the way she went 
Home with her maiden posy. 

For her feet have touch'd the meadows 
And left the daisies rosy. 



Birds in the high Hall-garden 
Were crying and calling to her, 

Where is Maud, Maud, Maud, 
One is come to woo her. 



Look, a horse at the door, 

And little King Charles is snarling. 
Go back, my lord, across the moor. 

You are not her darling. 



XIIL 

1. 

Scorn'p, to be scorn'd by one that I scorn, 

Is that a matter to make me fret ? 

That a calamity hard to be borne ? 

Well, he may live to hate me yet. 

Fool that I am to be vext with his pride ! 

I past him, I v/as crossing his lands ; 

He stood on the path a little aside; 

His face, as I grant, in spite of spite. 

Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and white 



MAUD. 



13-; 



And six feet two, iis I think, lie stands ; 
But his essences tiun'd the live air sick, 
And barbarous opulence jewel-thick 
Suuu'd Itself on his breast and his hands. 

2. 
Who shall call me ungentle, unfair, 
I long'd so heartily then and there 
To give him the grasp of fellowship ; 
But while I past he was humming an air, 
Stopt, and then with a riding whip 
Leisurely tapping a glossy boot. 
And curving a contumelious lip, 
Gorgonized me from head to foot 
With a stouy British stare. 



Why sits he here in his father's chair ? 
That old man never comes to his place: 
Shall I believe him ashamed to be seen? 
For only once, in the village street, 
Last year, I caught a glimpse of his face, 
A gray old wolf and a lean. 
Scarcely, now, would I call him a cheat ; 
For then, perhaps, as a child of deceit. 
She might by a true descent be untrue ; 
And Maud is as true as Maud is sweet ; 
Tho' 1 fancy her sweetness only due 
To the sweeter blood by the other side ; 
Her mother has been a thing complete, 
However .she came to be so allied. 
And fair without, faithful within, 
Maud to him is nothing akin : 
Some peculiar mystic grace 
Made her only the child of her mother, 
And heap'd the whole inherited siu 
On that huge scapegoat of the race, 
All, all upon the brother. 

4. 

Peace, angry spirit, and let him bt ! 
Has not his sister smiled on me ? 

XIV. 

1. 
Matjd has a garden of roses 
And lilies fair on a lawn ; 
There she walks in her state 
And tends upon bed and bower 
And thither I climb'd at dawn 
And stood by her garden gate; 
A lion ramps at the top, 
He is claspt by a passion-flower. 



Maud's own little oak-room 

(Which Maud, like a precious stone 

Set iu the heart of the carven gloom, 

Lights with herself, when alone 

She sits by her music and books, 

And her brother lingers late 

With a roystering company) looks 

Upon Maud's own garden gate : 

And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as white 

As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid 

On the hasp of the window, and my Delight 

Had a sudden desire, like a glorious ghost, to glide. 

Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, down to my side. 

There were but a step to be made. 



The fancy flatter'd my mind, 

And again seem'd overbold ; 

Now I thought that she cared for me, 

Now I thought she was kind 

Only because she was cold. 



I heard no sound where I stood 

But the rivulet on from the lawn 

Running down to my own dark wood; 

Or the voice of the long sea-wave as it swell'd 

Now and then iu the dim-gray dawn ; 

But I look'd, and round, all round the house I be 

held 
The death-white curtain drawn ; 
Felt a horror over me creep, 
Prickle my skin and catch my breath, 
Knew that the death-white curtain meant but sleep. 
Yet I shudder'd and thought like a fool of the sleep 

of death. 

XV. 

So dark a mind within me dwells, 

And I make myself such evil cheer, 
That if I be dear to some one else. 

Then some one else may have much to fear ; 
But if I be dear to some one else. 

Then I should be to myself more dear. 
Shall I not take care of all that I think, 
Yea ev'n of wretched meat and drink, 
If I be dear. 
If I be dear to some one else ? 

XVl. 



This lump of earth has left his estate 

The lighter by the loss of his weight; 

And so that he tiud what he went to seek, 

And fulsome Pleasure clog him, and drown 

His heart iu the gross mud-honey of town, 

He may stay for a year who has gone for a we 

But this is the day when I must speak, 

And I see my Oread coming down, 

O this is the day ! 

beautiful creature, what am I 
That I dare to look her way; 
Think I may hold dominion sweet. 

Lord of the pulse that Is lord of her breast, 
And dream of her beanty with tender dread. 
From the delicate Arab arch of her feet 
To the grace that, bright and light as the crsst 
Of a peacock, sits on her shining head. 
And she knows it not : O, if she knew it, 
To know her beauty might half undo it. 

1 know it the one bright thing to save 
My yet young life in the wilds of Time, 
Perhaps from madness, perhaps from crime 
Perhaps from a selfish grave. 

2. 

What, if she were fixsten'd to this fool lord. 

Dare I bid her abide by her word? 

Should I love her so well if she 

Had given her word to a thing so low? 

Shall I love her as well if she 

Can break her word were it even for me ? 

I trust that it is not so. 



Catch not my breath, O clamorous heart, 
Let not my tongue be a thrall to my eye. 
For I must tell her before we part, 
I must tell her, or die. 

XVII. 

Go not, happy day, 
From the shining fields. 

Go not, happy day. 
Till the maiden yields. 



136 



MAUD. 



Eosy is the West, 

Rosy is the Soutli, 
Roses are her cheeks, 

And a rose her mouth. 
When the happy Yes 

Falters from her lips. 
Pass and blush the news 

O'er the blowing ships, 
Over blowing seas. 

Over seas at rest. 
Pass the happy news, 

Blush it thro' the West, 
Till the red man dance 

By his red cedar-tree, 
And the red man's babe 

Leap, beyond the sea. 
Blush from West to East, 

Blush from East to West, 
Till the West is East, 

Blush it thro' the West. 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks. 

And a rose her mouth. 

XVIII. 
1. 

I HAVi; led her home, my love, my only friend. 

There is none like her, none, 

And never yet so warmly ran my blood 

And sweetly, on and on 

Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for end. 

Full to the banks, close on the promised good. 



None like her, none. 

Just now the dry-tongued laurel's pattering tall: 

Seem'd her light foot along the garden walk. 

And shook my heart to think she comes once more ; 

But even then I heard her close the door. 

The gates of heaven are closed, and she is gone. 



There is none like her, none. 

Nor will be when our summers have deceased. 

O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 

In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious 

East, 
Sighing for Lebanon, 

Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have liere increased. 
Upon a pastoral slope as fair. 
And looking to the South, and fed 
With houey'd rain and delicate air. 
And haunted by the starry head 
Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate, 
And made my life a perfumed altar-flame ; 
And over whom thy darkness must have spread 
Willi such delight as theirs of old, thy great 
Forefathers of the thornless garden, there 
Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from whom she 

came. 



Here will I lie, while these long branches sway. 

And you fair stars that crown a happy day 

Go in and out as if at merry play. 

Who am no more so all forlorn, 

As when it seeni'd far better to be born 

To labor and the mattock-harden'd hand, 

Than nursed at ease and brought to understand 

A sad astrology, the boundless plan 

That makes you tyrants in your iron skies. 

Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes, 

Cold fires, yet with power t') burn and brand 

His nothingness into man. 



But now shine on, and what care I, 

Who in this stormy gulf have found a psarl 

The countercharm of space and hollow sky, 

And do accept my madness and would die 

To save from some slight shame one simp>e girl, 

6. 

Would die ; for sullen-seeming Death may give 

More life to Love than is or ever was 

In our low world, where yet 't is sweet to live. 

Let no one ask me how it came to pass; 

It seems that I am happy, that to me 

A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, 

A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 



Not die ; but live a life of truest breath. 

And teach true life to fight with mortal wrongs. 

O, why should Love, like men in drinking-songs, 

Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death? 

Make answer, Maud my bliss. 

Maud made my Maud by that long lover's kiss. 

Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this ? 

"The dusky strand of Death inwoven here 

With dear Love's tie, makes Love himself more dear. 

8. 
Is that enchanted moan only the swell 
Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay? 
And hark the clock within, the silver knell 
Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal white, 
And died to live, long as my pulses play ; 
But now by this my love has closed her sight 
And given false death her hand, and stol'n away 
To dreamful wastes where footless fancies dwell 
Among the fancies of the golden day. 
May nothing there her maiden grace affright ! 
Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy spell. 
My bride to be, my evermore delight. 
My own heart's heart and ownest own fare\\'ell ; 
It is l)ut lor a little space I go 
And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell 
Beat to the noiseless music of the night ! 
Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow 
Of your soft splendors that you look so bright ? 
/ have climb'd nearer out of lonely Hell. 
Beat, happy stars, timing with things below, 
Beat with my heart more blest than heart can tell 
Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woe 
That seems to draw — but it shall not be so- 
Let all be well, be well. 

XIX. 
1. 

Her brother is coming back to-night, 
Breaking up my dream of delight. 



My dream ? do I dream of bliss ? 
I have walk'd awake with Truth. 

when did a morning shine 
So rich in atonement as this 
For my dark dawning youth, 
Darken'd watching a mother decline 

And that dead man at her heart and mincj 
For who was left to watch her but I ? 
Yet so did I let my freshness die. 

3. 

1 trust that I did not talk 
To gentle Maud in our walk 
<For often in lonely wanderings 

I have cursed him even to lifeless things) 



MAUD. 



131 



But I trust that I did not talk, 
Not touch ou her father's sin : 
I am sure I did but speak 
Of my mother's faded cheek 
When it slowly grew so thin, 
That I felt she was slowly dying 
Vextwiih lawyers and harass'd with debt: 
For how often I caught her with eyes all wet, 
Shaking her head at her sou aud sighing 
A world of trouble within ! 

4. 

Aud Maud too, Maud was moved 

To speak of the mother she loved 

As one scarce less forlorn, 

Dying abroad and it seems apart 

From him who had ceased to share her heart, 

And ever mourning over the feud. 

The household Fury sprinkled with blood 

By which our houses are torn ; 

How strange was what she said. 

When only Maud aud the brother 

Hung over her dying bed, — 

That Maud's dark father and mine 

Had bound us one to the other, 

Betrothed us over their wiue 

Ou the day when Maud was born ; 

Seal'd her miue from her first sweet breath. 

Mine, mine by a right, from birth till death, 

Mine, mine — our fathers have sworn. 



But the true blood spilt had in it a heat 

To dissolve the precious seal ou a bond. 

That, if left lyicancell'd, had been so sweet : 

And none of us thought of a something beyond, 

A desire that awoke in the heart of the child. 

As it were a duty done to the tomb. 

To be friends for her sake, to be reconciled ; 

Aud I was cursing them aud my doom, 

Aud letting a dangerous thought run wild 

While often abroad in the fragrant gloom 

Of foreign churches, — I see her there. 

Bright English lily, breathing a prayer 

To be friends, to be recouciled ! 



But then what a Hint is he ! 

Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, 

1 find whenever she touch'd on me 

This brother had laugh'd her down. 

And at last, when each came home, 

He had darkeu'd iuto a frown, 

Chid her, and forbid her to speak 

To me, her friend of the years before; 

And this was what had redden'd her cheek. 

When I bow'd to her on the moor. 

7. 
Yet Maud, altho' not blind 
To the fiiults ot his heart aud mind, 
I see she cannot but love him, 
And says he is rough but kind. 
And wishes me to approve him, 
And tells me, when she lay 
Sick once, with a fear of worse. 
That he left his wiue aud horses and play. 
Sat with her, read to her, night aud day, 
A.nd tended her like a nurse. 



Kind? but the death-bed desire 
Spurn'd by this heir of the liar- 
Rough but kind? yet I know 
He has plotted against me in this, 



That he plots against me still. 
Kind to Maud ? that were not amiss. 
Well, rough but kind ; why, let it be SO' 
For shall not Maud have her will ? 



For, Maud, so tender and true. 
As long as my life endures 
I feel I shall owe you a debt. 
That I never can hope to pay ; 
And if ever I should forget 
That I owe this debt to you 
And for your sweet sake to yours; 

then, what then shall I say ?— 
If ever I shoidd forget. 

May God make me more wretched 
Than ever I have been yet ! 

10. 
So now I have sworn to bury 
All this dead body of hate, 

1 feel so free and so clear 

By the loss of that dead weight, 

That I should grow light-headed, I fear, 

Fantastically merry ; 

But that her brother comes, like a blighj 

Ou my fresh hope, to the Hall to-night. 

XX. 
1. 

Stkangt:, that I felt so gay, 
Strange that I tried to-day 
To beguile her melancholy ; 
The Sultan, as we name him,- - 
She did not wish to blame him — 
But he vext her and perplext her 
With his worldly talk aud folly: 
Was it geutle to reprove her 
For stealing out of view 
From a little lazy lover 
Who but claims her as his due ? 
Or for chilling his caresses 
By the coldness of her manners, 
Nay, the plainness of her dresses? 
Now I know her but iu two. 
Nor can pronounce upon it 
If one should ask me whether 
The habit, hat, and feather. 
Or the frock and gypsy bonnet 
Be the neater and completer; 
For nothing can be sweeter 
Than maiden Maud in either. 



But to-morrow, if we live. 
Our ponderous squire will give 
A grand political dinner 
To half the squirelings near; 
And Maud will wear her jewels. 
And the bird o, prey will hover, 
And the titmouse hope to win her 
With his chirrup at her ear. 

3. 

A grand political dinner 

To the men of many acres, 

A gathering of the Tory, 

A dinner and then a dance 

For the maids and marriage-makers, 

And every eye but mine will glan:e 

At Maud in all her glory. 



For I am not invited, 

But, with the Sultan's pardo 

I am all as well delighted. 

For I know her own rose-garden, 



138 



MAUD. 



And mean to linger In it 
Till the dancing will be over; 
And then, O then, come out to me 
For a minute, but for a minute, 
Come out to your own true lover, 
That your true lover may see 
Your glory also, and render 
All homage to his own darling, 
Quesn Maud in all her splendor. 

XXI. 

KivuLET crossing my ground, 

And bringing me down from the Hall 

This gardeu-rose that I found, 

Forgetful of Maud and me, 

And lost in trouble and moving round 

Here at the head of a tinkling fall. 

And trying to pass to the sea ; 

O Rivulet, born at the Hall, 

My Maud has sent it by thee 

(If I read her sweet will right) 

On a blushing mission to me, 

Saying in odor and color, " Ah, be 

Among the roses to-night." 

XXII. 

1. 

i^OMH, into the garden, Maud, 
For the black bat, night, has floVVn, 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; 

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
And the musk of the roses blown. 



I'or a breeze of morning moves. 
And the planet of Love is on high. 

Beginning to faiut in the light that she loves 
On a bed of daffodil sky. 

To faint in the light of the sun that she loves, 
To faiut in his light, and to die. 



All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd 

To the dancers dancing in tunc ; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 

And a hush with the setting moon. 



I said to the lily, "There is bttt one 
With whom she has heart to be gay. 

When will the dancers leave her alone? 
She is weary of dance and play." 

Now half to the setting moon are gone, 
And half to the rising day ; 

Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 

5. 

L said to the rose, " The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine. 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those. 

For one that will never be thine ? 
But miue, but mine," so I sware to the rose, 

"For ever and ever, mine." 

C. 
.\nd the soul of the rose went into my blood. 

As the music clash'd in the hall ; 
.\nd long by the garden lake I stood. 

For 1 heard your rivulet fall 
from the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, 

Our wood, that is deaver than all ; 



7. 
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet 

That whenever a March-wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet, 

In violets blue as your eyes. 
To the woody hollows in which we meet 

And the valleys of Paradise. 

S. 

The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree ; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lee ; 
But the rose was awake all night for your sake, 

Knowing your promise to me ; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 

Thev sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 



Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
Come hither, the dances are done, 

In gloss of satin aud glimmer of pearls. 
Queen lily and rose in one; 

Shine, out, little head, sunning over with curis. 
To the flowers, aud be their suu. 

10. 

There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 

She is coming, my life, my fate ; 
The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near;'' 

And the white rose weeps, "She is late;" 
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;" 

And the lily whispers, "I wait." 

11. 

She is coming, my own, my sweet t 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat. 

Had I lain for a century dead; 
Would start and tremble under her feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 

XXIIL 



"The fault was mine, the fault was mine' — 

Why am I sitting here so stuun'd and still. 

Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the hill ?— 

It is this guilty hand ! — 

And there rises ever a passionate cry 

From underneath in the darkening land— 

What is it, that has been done? 

O dawn of Eden bright over earth and sky. 

The fires of Hell brake out of thy rising suu, 

The flres of Hell and of Hate ; 

For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a word. 

When her brother ran in his rage to the gate, 

He came with the babe-faced lord ; 

Heap'd on her terms of disgrace. 

And while she wept, and I strove to be cool. 

He fiercely gave me the lie, 

Till I with as fierce an anger spoke. 

And he struck me, madman, over the face, 

Struck me before the languid fool. 

Who was gaping and grinning by : 

Struck for himself an evil stroke: 

Wrought for his house an irredeemable woe; 

For front to front in an hour we stood, 

And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke 

From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the wood, 

And thunder'd up into Heaven the Christless cod«v 

That must have life for a blow. 



MAUD. 



139 



Ever and ever afresh they s^eeni'd to grow. 
Was it he hiy there with a fading eye? 
"The fanlt was mine," he whisper'd, "fly!" 
Then glided out of the joyous wood 
The ghastly Wraith of one that I know ; 
And there rang on a sudden a passiouate cry, 
A cry for a brother's blood : 

It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I die, till 
I die. 



Is it gone? my pulses beat — 

What was it? a lying trick of the brain? 

Yet I thought I saw her stand, 

A shadow there at my feet. 

High over the shadowy laud. 

It is gone ; and the heavens fall in a gentle rain, 

When they should burst and drown with deluging 

storms 
The feeble vassals of wine and auger and lust, 
The little hearts that know not how to forgive : 
Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold Thee just, 
Strike dead the whole weak race of venomous worms. 
That sting each other here in the dust ; 
We are not worthy to live. 

XXIV. 

1. 

See what a lovely shell, 
Small and pure as a pearl, 
Lying close to my foot, 
Frail, but a work divine, 
Made so fiiirily well 
With delicate spire and whorl, 
How exquisitely minute, 
A miracle of design ! 



What is it ? a learned m.an 
Could give it a clumsy name. 
Let him name it who can. 
The beauty would be the same. 

3. 

The tiny cell is forlorn, 
Void of the little living will 
That made it stir on the shore. 
Did he staud at the diamond door 
Of his house in a rainbow frill ? 
Did he push, when he was unqurl'd, 
A golden foot or a fairy horn 
Thro' his dim water-world ? 

4. 

Slight, to be crush'd with a tap 
Of my tinger-nail on the sand, 
Small, but a work divine. 
Frail, but of force to withstaud. 
Year upon year, the shock 
Of cataract seas that snap 
The three-decker's oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock. 
Here on the Breton strand ! 



Breton, not Briton ; here 

Like a shipwreck'd niau on a coast 

Of ancient lable and fear, — 

Plagued with a flitting to and fro, 

A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 

That never came from on high 

Nor ever arose from below. 

But only moves with the moving eye. 

Flying along the land and th6 main,— 



Why should it look like Maud ? 
Am I to be overawed 
By what I cannot but know 
Is a juggle born of the brain? 



Back from the Breton coast, 

Sick of a nameless fear. 

Back to the dark sea-line 

Looking, thinking of all I have losti 

An old song vexes my ear ; 

But that of Lamech is mine. 



For years, a measureless ill. 
For years, forever, to part, — 
But she, she would love me still < 
And as long, O God, as she 
Have a grain of love for me, 
So long, no doubt, no doubt, 
Shall I nurse in my dark heart, 
However weary, a spark of will 
Not to be trampled out. 



Strange, that the mind, when frangm 

With a passion so intense 

One would think that it well 

Might drown all life in the eye,~- 

That it should, by being so overwrought, 

Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 

For a shell, or a flower, little things 

Which else would have been past bj' ! 

And now I remember, I, 

When he lay dying there, 

I noticed one of his many rings 

(For he had many, poor worm) and thought 

It is his mother's hair. 



Who knows if he be dead ? 

Whether I need have fled ? 

Am I guilty of blood ? 

However this may be, 

Comfort her, comfort her, all things good. 

While I am over the sea ! 

Let me and my passionate love go by, 

But speak to her all things holy and high, 

Whatever happen to me ! 

Me and my harmful love go by ; 

But come to her waking, find her asleep. 

Powers of the height. Powers of the deep. 

And comfort her tho' I die. 

XXV. 

CocRAGE, poor heart of stone J 

I will not ask thee why 

Thou canst not understand 

That thou art left forever alone : 

Clourage, poor stupid heart of stone. — 

Or if I ask thee whj'. 

Care not thou to reply : 

She is but dead, and the time is at hana 

When thou shalt more than die. 

XXVI. 

1. 

O THAT 't were possible 

After long grief and pain 

To find the arms of my true iovc 

Round me once again ! 



When I was wont to meet her 
In the silent woody places 



140 



MAUD. 



By the home that gave me birth, 
We stood tranced iu long embraces 
Mixt with kisses sweetei- sweeter 
Than anything on earth. 



A shadow flits before me, 

Kot thou, but like to thee ; 

Ah Christ, that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 

The souls we loved, that they might tell us 

What and where they be. 



It leads me forth at evening, 

It lightly winds and steals 

In a cold white robe before me. 

When all my spirit reels 

At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 

And the roaring of the wheels. 



Half the night I waste iu sighs, 
Half iu dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of early skies; 
In a wakeful doze I sorrow 
For the hand, the lips, the eyes. 
For the meeting of the morrow, 
The delight of happy laughter, 
The delight of low replies. 



T is a morning ])ure and sweet, 
And a dewy splendor falls 
On the little flower that clings 
To the turrets and the walls ; 
'T is a morning pure and sweet, 
And the light and shadow fleet ; 
She is walking in the meadow. 
And the woodland echo rings ; 
In a moment we shall meet; 
She is singing in the meadow, 
And the rivulet at her feet 
Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 



Do I liear her sing as of old. 

My bird with the shining head, 

My own dove with the tender eye ? 

But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry, 

There is some one dying or dead. 

And a sullen thunder is roll'd ; 

For a tumult shakes the city, 

And I wake, my dream is fled ; 

In the shuddering dawn, behold, 

Without knowledge, without pity, 

By the curtains of my bed 

That abiding phantom cold. 

S. 

Get thee hence, nor come again, 
Mix not memory with doubt, 
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, 
Pass and cease to move about, 
'T is the blot upon the brain 
That imll show itself without. 

9. 
Then I rise, the eave drops fall, 
And the yellow vapors choke 
The great city sounding wido; 
The day comes, a dull red ball 
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 
On the misty river-tide. 



10. 

Thi'o' the hubbub of the market 

I steal, a wasted frame, 

It crosses here, it crosses there, 

Thro' all that crowd confused and louj. 

The shadow still the same; 

And on 7iiy heavy eyelids 

My anguish hangs like shame. 

11. 

Alas for her that met me, 

That heard me softly call. 

Came glimmering thro' the laurels 

At the quiet evenfall, 

In the garden by the turrets 

Of the old manorial hall. 

12. 
Would the happy spirit descend, 
From the realms of light and song, 
In the chamber or the street. 
As she looks among the blest, 
Should I fear to greet my friend 
Or to say " forgive the wrong," 
Or to ask her, " take me sweet, 
To the regions of thy rest ?" 

13. 

But the broad light glares and beats. 

And the shadow flits and fleets 

And will not let me be ; 

And I loathe the squares and streets, 

And the faces that one meets. 

Hearts with no love for me : 

Always I long to creep 

Into some still cavern deep. 

There to weep, and weep, and weep 

My whole soul out to thee. 



1. 

Dead, long dead. 

Long dead ! 

And my heart is a handful of dust. 

And the wheels go over my head. 

And my bones are shaken with jjain. 

For into a shallow grave they are thrust, 

Only a yard beneath the street, 

And the hoofs of the horses beat, heat. 

The hoofs of the horses beat, 

Beat into my scalp and my brain. 

With uever an end to the stream of passing feet, 

Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying. 

Clamor and rumble, and ringing and clatter, 

And here beneath it is all as bad, 

For I thought the dead had peace, but it is not so; 

To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad? 

But up and down and to and fro. 

Ever about me the dead men go ; 

And then to hear a dead man chatter 

Is enough to drive one mad. 

2. 

Wretchedest age, since Time began. 

They cannot even bury a man ; 

And tho' we paid our tithes in the days that are gone, 

Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read; 

It is that which makes us loud in the world of the 

dead ; 
There is none that does his work, not one ; 
A touch of their office might have sufficed, 
But the churchmen fain would kill their church, 
As the churches have kill'd their Clirist. 



MAUD. 



HI 



See, there is one of us sobbing, 

No limit to his distress ; 

And another, a lord of all things, praying 

To his own great self, as I guess; 

And another, a statesman there, betraying / 

His party-secret, fool, to the press ; 

And yonder a vile physician, blabbing 

The case of his patient, — all for what? 

To tickle the maggot born in an empty head, 

And wheedle a world that loves him not, 

For it is but a world of the dead. 



Nothing but idiot gabble ! 

For the prophecy given of old 

And then not understood. 

Has come to pass as foretold ; 

Not let any man think for the public good. 

But babble, merely for babble. 

For I never whisper'd a private affair 

Within the hearing of cat or mouse. 

No, not to myself in the closet alone. 

But I heard it shouted at once from the top of the 

house ; 
Everything came to be known : 
Who told him we were there ? 

5. 

Not that gray old wolf, for he came not back 
From the wilderness, full of wolves, where he used 

to lie : 
He has gather'd the bones for his o'ergrowu v.'hclp 

to crack; 
Crack them now for yourself, and howl, and die. 

6. 
Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip. 
And curse me the British vermin, the rat : 
I know not whether he came in the Hanover ship, 
But I know that he lies and listens mute 
in an ancient mansion's crannies and holes: 
Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it. 
Except that now we poison our babes, poor souls ? 
It is all used up for that. 



Tell him now: she is standing here at my head; 

Not beautiful now, not even kind; 

He may take her now ; for she never speaks her 

mind, 
But is ever the one thing silent here. 
She is not of us, as I divine; 

She comes from another stiller world of the dead, 
Stiller, not fairer than mine. 

8. 
But I know where a garden grows, 
Fairer than aught in the world beside. 
All made up of the lily and rose 
That blow by night, when the season is good, 
To the sound of dancing music and flutes: 
It is only flowers, they had no fruits, 
And I almost fear they are not roses, but blood ; 
For the keeper was one, so full of pride. 
He linkt a dead man there to a spectral bride ; 
For he, if he had not been a Sultan of brutes. 
Would he have that hole in his side? 



But what will the old man say? 

He laid a cruel snare in a pit 

To catch a friend of mine one stormy day ; 

Yet now I could even weep to think of it ; 

For what will the old man say 

When he comes to the second corpse in the pit f 



10. 
Friend, to be struck by the public foe, 
Then to strike him and lay him low. 
That were a public merit, far. 
Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin; 
But the red life spilt for a iirivate blow^ 
I swear to you, lawful and lawless war 
Are scarcely even akin. 

1]. 

me, why have they not buried me deep enough T 
Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough, 

Me, that was never a quiet sleeper? 
Maybe still I am but half-dead; 
Then I cannot be wholly dumb ; 

1 will cry to the steps above my head, 

And somebody, surely, some kind heart will come 
To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so little deeper. 

XXVIII. 

1. 

Mv life has crept so long on a broken wing 
Thro' cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, 
That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing: 
My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of year 
When the face of night is fair ou the dewy downs. 
And the shining daftodil dies, and the Charioteer 
And starry Gemini hang like glorious crowns 
Over Orion's grave low down in the west. 
That like a silent lightning under the stars 
She seem'd to divide in a dream from a baud ol tha 

blest. 
And spoke of a hope for the world in *he coming 

wars — 
"And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest. 
Knowing I tarry for thee," and pointed to Mars 
As he glow'd like a ruddy shield ou the Lion's 

breast. 

2. 

And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a aear de- 
light 
To have look'd, Iho' but in a dream, upon eyes so 

fair. 
That had been in a weary world my one thing bright; 
And it was but a dream, yet it lightcn'dmy despair 
When I thought that a war would arise in defence 

of the right. 
That an iron tyranny now should bend or cease, 
The glory of manhood stand on his ancient height, 
Nor Britain's one sole God be the millionnaire: 
No more shall commerce bo all in all, and Peace 
Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note. 
And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase, 
Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful shore. 
And the cobweb woven across the cannon's throat 
Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more. 

3. 
And as months ran on and rumor of battle grew, 
"It is time, it is time, O passionate heart," said I 
(For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure and 

true), 
"It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye, 
That old hysterical mock-disease should die." 
And I stood ou a giant deck and mix'd my breath 
With a loyal people shouting a battle cry. 
Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and fly 
Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death. , 

4. 
Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aims 
Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold, 
And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and 
shames, 



142 



THE BROOK. 



Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told ; 
And hail once more to the banner of battle unroil'd ! 
Tho' many a light shall darken, and many shall weep 
For those that are crush'd in the clash of jarring 

claims, 
Yet God's just M-rath shall be wreak'd on a giant 

liar ; 
And many a darkness into the light shall leap 
And shine in the sudden making of splendid names. 
And noble thought be freer under the sun. 
And the heart of a people beat with one desire ; 
For the peace, that I deeni'd no peace, is over and 

done. 
And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic 

deep, 
And deathful-grinniug mouths of the fortress, flames 
The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire. 

5. 

Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a 
wind. 

We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are 
noble still, 

And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the better 
mind ; 

It is better to fight for the good, than to rail at the 
ill; 

I have felt with my native laud, I am one with my 
kind, 

I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom as- 
sign' d. 



THE BROOK; 

AN IDYL. 

' Here, by this brook, we parted ; I to the East 
And he for Italy— too late— too late: 
One whom the strong sons of the world despise ; 
For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and share. 
And mellow metres more than cent for cent ; 
Nor could he understand how money breeds. 
Thought it a dead thing; yet himself could make 
The thing tiiat is not as the thing that is. 

had he lived ! In our school-books we say. 
Of those that held their heads above the crowd, 
They flourish'd then or then; but life in him 
Could scarce be said to flourish, only touch'd 
On such a time as goes before the leaf, 

When all the wood stands in a mist of green, 
And nothing perfect : yet the brook lie loved, 
For which, in branding summers of Bengal, 
Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neilgherry air, 

1 panted, seems, as I re-listen to it. 
Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy, 

To me that loved him; for 'O brook,' he says, 
'O babbling brook,' says Edmund iu his rhyme, 
' Whence come you ?' and the brook, why not ? re- 
plies. 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden eally 
And sparkle out among the fern. 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down. 

Or slip between the ridges, 
By twenty thorps, a little town, 

And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 

To join the brimming river. 
For men may come and men may g(> 

But I go on forever. 

"Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn out. 
Travelling to Naples. There is Darnlcy bridge. 
It has more ivy; there the river; and there 
Stands Philip's farm where brook and river meet. 



I chatter over stony ways. 

In little sharps and trebles, 
I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 

By many a field and fallow, 
And many a fairy foreland set 

With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 

To join the brimming river. 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

"But Philip chatter'd more than brook or bird; 
Old Philip; all about the fields you caught 

His weary daylong chirping, like the dry 
High-elbow'd grigs that leap iu summer grass. 

I wind about, and in and out. 
With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout. 
And here and there a grayling, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel • 
With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel. 

And draw them all along, and flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go ou forever. 

"0 darling Katie Willows, his one child 1 
A maiden of our century, yet most meek ; 
A daughter of our meadows, yet not coarse ; 
Straight, but as lissome as a hazel wand ; 
Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the sheiJ 
Divides threefold to show the fruit within. 

" Sweet Katie, once I did her a good turn, 
Her and her far-off" cousin and betrothed, 
James Willows, of one name and heart with her. 
For here I came, twenty years back, — the week 
Before I parted with poor Edmund ; crost 
By that old bridge which, half in ruins then, 
Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam 
Beyond it, where the waters marry — crost. 
Whistling a random bar of Bonny Boon, 
And push'd at Philip's garden-gate. The gate, 
Half-parted from a weak and scolding hinge. 
Stuck ; and he clamor'd from a casement, ' ruu * 
To Katie somewhere in the walks below, 
' Run, Katie !' Katie never ran : she moved 
To m.eet me, winding under woodbine bowers, 
A little flutter'd with her eyelids down. 
Fresh apple-blossom, blushing for a boon. 

"What was it? less of sentiment than sense 
Had Katie; not illiterate; iieither one 
Who babbling in the fount of fictive tears, 
And nursed by mealy-mouthed philanthropies. 
Divorce the Feeling from her mate the Deed. 

"She told me. She and James had quarrell'd 
Why ? 
What cause of quarrel? None, she said, no cause; 
James had no cause : but when I prcst the cause, 
I learnt that James had flickering jealousies 
Which anger'd her. Who auger'd James ? I said. 
But Katie snatch'd her eyes at once from mine. 
And sketching with her slender-pointed foot 
Some figure like a wizard's pentagram 
On gai'den gravel, let my query pass 
Unclaim'd, iu flusbiu^: silence, till I ask'd 



THE LETTERS. 



143 



/f James \yere coming. 'Coming everj' day,' 
Stie auswer'd, 'ever lougiug to explain, 
But evermore her fattier came across 
Witli some long-winded tale, and broke him short; 
And James departed vext wiili him and her.' 
How could I help her ? ' Would I— was it wrong ?' 
(Claspt hands and that petitionary grace 
Of sweet seventeen subdued me ere she spoke) 
' O would I take her father for one hour, 
' For one half-hour, and let him talk to me !' 
And even while she spoke, I saw where James 
Made towards us, like a wader in the surf. 
Beyond the brook, waist-deep iu meadow-sweet. 

" O Katie, what I suffer'd for your sake ! 
For in I went and call'd old Philip out 
To show the farm: full willingly he rose: 
He led me thro' the short sweet-smelling lanes 
Of his wheat suburb, babbling as he went. 
He praised his laud, his horses, his machines ; 
He praised his ploughs, his cows, his hogs, his dogs ; 
He praised his hens, his geese, his guinea-hens ; 
His pigeons, who iu session on their roofs 
Approved him, bowing at their owu deserts: 
Then from the plaintive mother's teat, he took 
Her blind and shuddering puppies, naming each, 
And naming those, his friends, for whom they were: 
Then crost the common into Darnley chase 
To show Sir Arthur's deer. In copse and fern 
Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. 
Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech. 
He pointed out a pasturing colt, and said : 
'That was the four-year-old I sold the squire.' 
And there he told a long, long-winded tale 
Of how the squire had seen the colt at grass. 
And how it was the thing his daughter wish'd. 
And how he sent the bailiff to the farm 
To learn the price, and what the price he ask'd, 
And how the bailifi" swore that he was mad. 
But he stood firm; and so the matter hung; 
He gave them line : and five days after that 
He met the bailifi" at the Golden Fleece, 
Who then and there had ofi'er'd something more. 
But he stood firm; and so the matter hung; 
He knew the man ; the colt would fetch its price ; 
He gave them line: and how by chance at last 
(It might be May or April, he forgot. 
The last of April or the first of May) 
He found the bailiff riding by the farm, 
And, talking from the point, he drew him in, 
And there he mellow'd all his heart with ale, 
Until they closed a bargain, hand iu baud. 

"Then, while I breathed in sight of haven, he, 
Poor fellow, could he help it? recommenced, 
And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle. 
Wild Will, Black Bess, Tantivy, Tallyho, 
Reform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the Jilt, 
Arbaces and Phenomenon, and the rest. 
Till, not to die a listener, I arose. 
And with me Philip, talking still; aud so 
We turn'd our foreheads from the fiilling sun, 
And following our owu shadows thrice as long 
As when they follow'd ns from Philip's door, 
Arrived, aud found the sun of sweet content 
Ke-riseu in Katie's eyes, and all things well. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. 
Among my skimming swallows; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 
In brambly wildernesses; 
10 



I linger by my shingly bars ; 
I loiter round my cresses ; 

And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river. 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on forever. 

Yes, men may come and go; and these are gone. 

All gone. My dearest brother, Edmund, sleeps, 

Not by the well-known stream and rustic spire, 

But unfamiliar Aruo, and the dome 

Of Bruuelleschi ; sleeps in peace: and he. 

Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of words 

Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb: 

I scraped the lichen from it : Katie walks 

By the long wash of Australasian seas 

Far oft", and holds her head to other stars, 

Aud breathes in converse seasons. All are gone." 

So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a stile 
In the long hedge, aud rolling iu his mind 
Old waifs of rhyme, and binving o'er the brook 
A tonsured head iu middle age forlorn, 
Mused, and was mute. On a suddeu a low breaiL 
Of tender air made tremble iu the hedge 
The fragile bindweed-bells and briouy rings ; 
And he look'd up. There stood a maiden uear. 
Waiting to pass. In much amaze he stared 
On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit within : 
Then, wondering, ask'd her, "Are you from the 

farm ?" 
"Yes," auswer'd she. "Pray stay a little: pardon 

me; 
W^hat do they call you?" "Katie." "That wer* 

strange. 
What surname?" "Willows." "No!" "That is 

my name." 
" Indeed !" and here he look'd so self-perplext. 
That Katie laugh'd, and laughing blush'd, till he 
Laugh'd also, but as one before he wakes, 
Who feels a glimmering strangeness in his dream. 
Then lookiug at her; "Too happy, fresh and fair. 
Too fresh and fair iu our sad world's best bloom, 
To he the ghost of one who bore your uame 
About these meadows, twenty years ago." 

" Have you uot heard ?" said Katie, " we came 
back. 
We bought the farm we tenanted before. 
Am I so like her? so they said on board. 
Sir, if you knew her in her English days, 
My mother, as it seems you did, the days 
That most she loves to talk of, come with ms. 
My brother James is in the harvest-field : 
But she — you will be welcome— O, come iu I" 



THE LETTERS. 



Stii.l. on the tower stood the vane, 

A black yew gloom'd the stagnant air, 
I peer'd athwart the chancel pane 

And saw the altar cold and bare. 
A clog of lead was round my feet, 

A baud of pain across my brow ; 
" Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall meet 

Before you hear my marriage vow." 

2. 

I turn'd aud humm'd a bitter song 
That mock'd the wholesome human heart,. 

And then we met in wrath and wrong, 
We met, but only meant to part 



144 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 



Full cold my greeting was autl dry ; 

She faintly smiled, she hardly moved ; 
I saw with half-uncoiiscioiis eye 

She wore the colors I approved. 



She took the little ivory chest, 

With half a sigh she tiini'd the key, 
Theu raised her head with lips comprest, 

And gave my letters back to me. 
And gave the trinkets and the rings, 

My gifts, when gifts of mine could please : 
As looks a father on the things 

Of his dead sou, I look'd on these. 



She told me all her friends had said ; 

I raged against the public liar; 
She talk'd as if her love were dead. 

But in my words were seeds of fire. 
" No more of love ; your sex is known : 

I never will be twice deceived. 
Henceforth I trust the man alone, 

The woman canuot be believed. 



"Thro' slander, meanest spawn of Hell 

(And women's slander is the worst), 
And you, whom once I lov'd so well. 

Thro' you, my life will be accurst." 
I spoke with heart, and heat and force, 

I shook her breast with vague alarms- 
Like torrents from a mountain source 

We rush'd into each other's arms. 



We parted: sweetly gleam'd the stars, 

And sweet the vapor-braided blue, 
Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars. 

As homeward by the church I drew. 
The very graves appear'd to smile, 

So fresh they rose In shadow'd swells ; 
"Dark porch," I said, "and silent aisle. 

There comes a sound of marriage bells 



UDE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE 
OF WELLINGTON. 

1. 
Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation, 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation. 
Mourning when their leaders fall, 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall. 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 



Where shall we lay the man -whom we deplore i 
Here, in streaming London's central roar. 
Let the sound of those he wrought for, 
And the feet of those he fought for, 
Echo round his bo^es forevermore. 

3. 
Lead out the pageant: sad and slow, 
As fits an universal woe. 
Let the long long procession go, 
And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow. 
And let the mournful martial music blow ; 
The last great Englishman Is low. 



4. 
Mourn, for to us he seems the last. 
Remembering all his greatness in the Past. 
No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 
O friends, our chief state-oracle Is dead: 
Mourn for the man of iong-enduring blood. 
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, 
Whole in himself, a common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest influence, 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime. 
Our greatest yet with least pretence, 
Great iu council and great in war, 
Foremost captain of his time, 
Rich iu saving comraou-seuse, 
And, as the greatest only are, 
In his simplicity sublime. 
O good gray head which all men knew, 
O voice from which their omens all men drew, 
O iron nerve to true occasion true, 
O fall'u at length that tower of strength 
Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew! 
Such was he whom we deplore. 
The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 
The great World-victor's victor will be seen no more. 



All is over and done: 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

England, for thy son. 

Let the bell betoll'd. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and river, 

There he shall rest forever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd: 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds : 

Bright let it be with his blazon'd deeds. 

Dark in its funeral fold. 

Let the bell be tolled : 

And a deejier knell in the heart be kuoll'd; 

And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roU'd 

Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; 

And the volleying cannon thunder his loss; 

He knew their voices of old. 

For many a time in many a clime 

His captain's-ear has heard them boom 

Bellowing victory, bellowing doom ; 

When he with those deep voices wrought, 

Guarding realms and kings from shame ; 

With those deep voices our dead captain taught 

The tyrant, and asserts his claim 

In that dread sound to the great name. 

Which he has worn so pure of blame, 

In praise and in dispraise the same, 

A man of well-attemper'd frame. 

O civic muse, to such a name, 

To such a name for ages long, 

To such a name. 

Preserve a broad approach of fame. 

And ever-ringing avenues of song. 



Wlio is he that cometh, like an honor'd gu^st. 
With banner and with music, with soldier and with 

priest. 
With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest i 
Mighty seaman, this is he 
Was great by land as thou by sea. 
Thine island loves thee well, thou famoits man, 
The greatest sailor since our world began. 
Now, to the roll of muffled drums. 
To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 
For this is he 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 



14.: 



Was great by laud as thou by sea ; 

His toes were thiue ; he kept us free 

O give him weiconie, this is he, 

Worthy of our gorgeous rites, 

Aud worthy to be hiid by thee ; 

For this is England's greatest sou, 

He that gaiu'd a hundred fights, 

Nor ever lost an English gun ; 

This IS h* that far away 

Agaiust the myriads of Assaye 

Clash'd with his fiery few and won; 

And underneath another sun. 

Warring on a later day, 

Round affrighted Lisbon drew 

The treble works, the vast designs 

Of his labor'd rampart-lines, 

Where he greatly stood at bay. 

Whence he issued forth anew. 

And ever great and greater grew, 

Beating from the wasted vines 

Back to France her banded swarms, 

Back to France with countless blows, 

Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 

Past the Pyrenean pines, 

Follow'd up in valley and glen 

With blare of bugle, clamor of men, 

Roll of cannon and clash of arms, 

Aud England pouring on her foes. 

Such a war had such a close. 

Again their ravening eagle rose 

In anger, wheel'd ou Europe-shadowing wings, 

And barking for the thrones of kings; 

Tir. one that sought but Duty's iron crown 

On that loud sabbiUh shook the spoiler down ; 

A day of oufcets of despair '. 

Dash'd on every rocky square 

Their surging charges foam'd themselves away ; 

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 

Thro the long-tormented air 

Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray. 

And down we swept aud charged aud overthrew. 

So great a soldier taught us there. 

What long-enduring hearts could do 

In that world's-earthquake, Waterloo! 

Mighty seaman, tender and true. 

And pure as he from taint of craven guile, 

O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 

O shaker of the Baltic aud the Nile, 

If aught of things that here befall 

Touch a spirit among things divine, 

If love of country move thee there at all, 

Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine ! 

And thro' the centuries let a people's voice 

In full acclaim, 

A people's voice. 

The proof and echo of all human fame, 

A people's voice, when they rejoice 

At civic revel and pomp and game. 

Attest their great commander's claim 

With honor, honor, honor to him, 

Eternal honor to his name. 



A people's voice ! we are a people yet. 
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forget 
Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers ; 
Thank Him who isled us here, aud roughly set 
His Saxon in blown seas and storming showers, 
We have a voice, with which to pay the debt 
Of boundless love and reverence and regret 
To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. 
And keep it ours, O God, from brute control ; 
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul 
Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, 
Aud save the one true seed of freedom sown 
Betwixt a people and tlieir ancient throne, 
That sober freedom out of which there springs 
Our loyal passion for our temperate kings; 



For, saving that, ye help to save mankind 

Till public wrong be crumbled into dust. 

And drill the raw world for the march of mind. 

Till crowds at length be sane aud crowns l-c just 

But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 

Remember him who led your hosts; 

He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 

Your cannons moulder ou the seaward wall 5 

His voice is silent in your council-hall 

Forever ; and whatever tempests lower 

Forever silent ; even if they broke 

In thunder, silent : yet remember all 

He spoke among you, aud the Man who spoka ; 

Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, 

Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power; 

Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow 

Thro' either babbling world of high and low; 

Whose life was work, whose language rife 

With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 

■Who never spoke against a foo : 

Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuKe 

All great self-seekers trampling on the right: 

Truth-teller was our EngJand's Alfred named r 

Truth-lover was our English iJuke , 

Whatever record leap to light 

He never shall be* shamed. 



Lo, the leader in these glorious wars 

Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 

Follow'd by the brave of other lands, 

lie, on whom from both her open hand.i 

Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars. 

And affluent Fortune emptied all her hurn. 

Yea, let all good things await 

Him who cares not to be great. 

But as he saves or serves the state. 

Not once or twice in our rough island-story, 

The path of duty was the way to glory : 

He that walks it, only thirsting 

For the right, aud learns to deaden 

Love of self, before his journey closes. 

He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 

Into glossy purples, which outreddeu 

All voluptuous garden-roses. 

Not once or twice in our fair island-story. 

The i)ath of duty was the way to glory: 

He, that ever following her commands, 

Ou with toil of heart and knees and hands. 

Thro' the long gorge to the far light has woa 

His iiath upward, and prevail'd. 

Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled 

Are close upon the shining table-lands 

To which our God Himself is moon and sun. 

Such was he: his work is done. 

But while the races of mankind endure. 

Let his great example stand 

Colossal, seen of every land, 

And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure ; 

Till in all lands and thro' all human story 

The path of duty be the way to glory : 

And let the land whose hearths he saved from shami 

For many and many an age proclaim 

At civic revel and pomp and game, 

Aud when the long-illumined cities flame. 

Their ever-lo3'al iron leader's fame. 

With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 

Eternal honor to his name. 



Peace, his triumph will be sung 

By some yet unmonldcd tongue 

Par ou in summers that we shall not 

Peace, it is a day of pain 

For one about whose patriarchal knee 

Late the little children clung: 

O peace, it is a day of pain 



146 



THE DAISY. 



For one upon whose hand and heart and braiu 
Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 
Ours the pain, be his the gain ! 
More than is of man's degree 
Must be with us, watching here 
At this, our great solemnity. 
Whom we see not we revere. 
We revere, and we refrain 
From tallc cf battles loud and vain, 
And brawling memories all too free 
For such a wise humility 
As befits a solemn fane: 
We revere, and while we hear 
The tides of Music's golden sea 
Setting toward eternity, 
Tplifted high iu heart and hope are we, 
Until we doubt not that for one so true 
There must be other nobler work to do 
Thau when he fought at Waterloo, 
And Victor he must ever be. 
For the' the Giant Ages heave the hill 
And break the shore, and evermore 
Make and break, and work their will ; 
rho' world on world in myriad myriads roll 
Round iis, each with different powers. 
And other forms of life than ours. 
What know we greater than the soul ? 
On God and Godlike men we build our trust. 
Hnsh, the Dead March wails in the people's ears: 
The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tear; 
The black earth yawns : the mortal disappears ; 
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 
He is gone who seem'd so great. — 
Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 
Of the force he made his own 
Being here, and we believe him 
Something far advanced in state. 
And that he wears a truer crown 
Thau any wreath that man can weave him. 
But speak no more of bis renown. 
Lay your earthly fancies down. 
And in the vast cathedral leave him. 
God accept him, Christ receive him. 
1852. 



THE DAISY. 

■WRITTEN AT EDIXBURGII. 

O Love, what hours were thine and mine. 
In lands of palm and southern pine ; 

In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, 
Of olive, aloe, .and maize and vine. 

What Roman strength Turbia show'd 
In ruin, by the mountain road ; 

IIow like a gem, beneath, the city 
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd. 

How richly down the rocky dell 
The torrent vineyard streaming fell 

To meet the sun and sunny waters. 
That only heaved with a summer swell. 

What slender campanili grew 

By bays, the peacock's neck in hue; 

Where, here and there, on sandy beaches 
A milky-beil'd amaryllis blew. 

How young Columbus seem'd to rove, 
Yet present in his natal grove. 

Now watching high on mountain cornice, 
And steering, now, from a purple cove, 

Now pacing mute by ocean's rim; 
Till, in a narrow street and dim, 

I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto, 
.\nd drank, and loyally drank to him. 



Nor knew we well what pleased us most 
Not the dipt palm of which they boast ; 

But distant color, happy hamlet, 
A moulder'd citadel on the coast, 

Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen 
A light amid its olives green ; 

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ; 
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine. 

Where oleanders flush'd the bed 
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread ; 

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 
Of ice, fi;r up on a mountain head. 

We loved that hall, tho' white and rold, 
Those niched shapes of noble mould, 

A princely i)eople's awfnl princes. 
The grave, severe Genovese of old. 

At Florence too what golden hours. 
In those long galleries, were ours ; 

What drives about the fresh Casciui, 
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. 

In bright vignettes, and each complete, 
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet. 

Or palace, how the city glitter'd. 
Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet. 

But when we crost the Lombard plain 
Remember what a plague of rain; 

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ; 
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. 

And stern and sad (so rare the smiles 
Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles, 

Porch-pillars on the lion resting. 
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. 

Milan, O the chanting quires. 
The giant windows' blazon'd tires. 

The height, the space, the gloom, the gioryi 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires ; 

1 climb'd the roofs at break of day ; 
Sun-smitteu Alps before me lay. 

I 'tood among the silent statues, 
And statued pinnacles, mute as they. 

IIow faintly-flush'd, how phantom-fair. 
Was Monte Rosa, hanging there 

A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys 
And snowy dells in a golden air. 

Remember how we came at last 
To Como; shower and storm and blast 
Had olown the lake beyond his limit, 
And all was flooded ; and how we past 

From Como, when the light was gray, 
And iu my head, for half the day. 

The rich Virgilian rustic measure 
Of Lari Maxurae, all the way. 

Like ballad-burthen music, kept, 
As on the Lariano crept 

To that fair port below the castle 
Of Queen Theodoliud, where we slept ; 

Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake 

A cypress in the moonlight shake. 
The moonlight touching o'er u terrace 
One tall Agavo above the lake. 

What more? we took our last adieu. 
And up the snowy Splugen drew. 

But ere we reach'd the highest summit 
I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. 



TO THE REV. F. D. IMAURICE.— THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 147 



It told of England then to me, 
And now it tells of Italy. 

O love, we two shall go no longer 
To lauds of summer across tlie sea ; 

So dear a life your arms enfold 
Whose crying is a cry for gold : 

Yet here to-night in this dark city, 
When ill and weary, alone and cold, 

1 found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry. 
This nurseling of another sky 

Still in the little book you lent me. 
And where you tenderly laid it by: 

And I forgot the clouded Forth, 

The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth, 

The bitter east, the misty summer 
And gray metropolis of the North. 

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, 
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, 

Perchance, to dream you still beside me. 
My fancy fled to the South again. 



TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 

Come, when no graver cares employ, 
God-father, come and see your boy : 

Your presence will be sun in winter, 
Making the little one leap for joy. 

For, being of that honest few, 

Who give the Fiend himself his due, 

Should eighty thousand college councils 
Thunder " Anathema," friend, at you : 

Should all our churchmen foam in spite 
At you, so careful of the right, 

Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome 
(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight; 

Where, for from noise and smoke of town, 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless-order'd garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

Yoit'll have no scandal while you dine. 
But honest talk and wholesome wine. 

And only hear the magpie gossip 
Garrulous under a roof of pine : 

For groves of pine on either hand. 
To break the blast of winter, stand ; 
And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand; 

Where, if below the milky steep 
Some ship of battle slowly creep. 

And on thro' zones of light and shadow 
Glimmer away to the lonely deep. 

We might discuss the Northern sin 
Which "made a selfish war begin ; 

Dispute the claims, arrange the chances ; 
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win : 

Or whether war's avenging rod 
Shall lash all Europe into blood; 

Till you should turn to dearer matters, 
Dear to the man that is dear to God ; 

How best to help the slender store, 
How mend the dweTi'iugs, of the poor-. 

How gain in life, ss life advances, 
Valor and charity more and ^r.ore. 



Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as yet 
Is hoar witli rime, or spongy-wet; 

But when tho wreath of March has blossom'd, 
Crocus, anemone, violet, 

Or later, pay one visit here. 

For those are few we hold as dear; 

Nor pay but one, but come for many, 
Many and many a happy year. 
Januanj, 1S54. 



WILL. 

1. 
O WELL for him whose will is strong : 
He suflers, but he will not suffer long ; 
He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong: 
For him nor moves the loud world's random mock 
Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound. 
Who seems a promontory of rock, 
That, compass'd round with turbulent sound, 
In middle ocean meets the surging shock. 
Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown' d. 



But ill for him who, bettering not with time. 

Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended Will, 

And ever weaker grows thro' acted crime. 

Or seeming-genial venial fault. 

Recurring and suggesting still ! 

He seems as one whose footsteps 

Toiling in immeasurable sand, 

And o'er a weary, sultry land. 

Far beneath a blazing vault. 

Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill. 

The city sparkles like a grain of salt. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 

1. 
Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward. 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the si.x hundred. 
"Forward, the Light Brigade! 
"Charge for the guns!" he said; 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 



"Forward, the Light Brigade!" 
Was there a man dismay'd ? 
Not tho' the soldier knew 

Some one had blundcr'd : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die. 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the si.x hundred. 

3. 
Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon in front of them 

Volley'd and thuuder'd , 
Storra'd at with shot and shdlj 
Boldiy they rode and well. 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 



148 



DEDICATION.— THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



Flash'd all tlicir s^abres bare, 
Flash'd as they turu'd in air, 
Sabring the gunners there. 
Charging an arnij', while 

All the world wonder'd: 
Plunged in the battery-smoke, 
Eight thro' the line they broke; 
Cossack and Russian 
Keel'd from the sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not, 

Not the six hundred. 

5. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannou to left of them, 



Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 
Left of six hundred. 

C. 
When can their glory fade? 
O the wild charge they made! 

All the world wonder'd. 
Honor the charge they made! 
Honor the Light Brigade! 

Noble six hundred! 



IDYLS OF THE KING. 



' Flos Ragum Arthurus." 

Joseph of Exeter. 



DEDICATION. 

These to His Memory— since he held them dear, 
Perchance as finding there unconsciously 
Some image of himself— I dedicate, 
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears— 
These Idyls. 

And indeed He seems to me 
Scarce other than my own ideal knight, 
"Who reverenced his conscience as his king; 
Whose glory was, redressing human wrong; 
Who spake no slander, no, nor listen'd to it; 
Who loved one only and who clave to her-" 
Her — over all whose realms to their last isle, 
Commingled with the gloom of imminent war, 
The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse. 
Darkening the world. We have lost him : he is gone: 
We know him now: all narrow jealousies 
Are silent ; and we see him as he moved, 
How modest, kindly, all-accoraplish'd, wise. 
With what sublime repression of himself. 
And in what limits, and how tenderly ; 
Not swaying to this faction or to that; 
Not making his high place the lawless perch 
Of wing'd ambitions, r.or a vantage-ground 
For pleasure ; but thro' all this tract of years 
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, 
Before a thousand peerhig littlenesses. 
In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, 
And blackens every blot: for where is he. 
Who dares foreshadow for an only son 
■A lovelier life, a more uustain'd, than his? 
Or how should England dreaming of his sons 
Hope more for these than some inheritance 
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine. 
Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, 
Laborious for her people and her poor — 
Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day — 
Far-sighted stimmouer of War and Waste 
To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace- 
Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam 
Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 
Dear to thy laud and ours, a Prince indeed. 
Beyond all titles, and a household name. 
Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Good. 

Break not, O woman's-hcart, but still endure ; 
Break not, for thou art Royal, but eiulure. 
Remembering all the beauty of that star 
Which shone so close beside Thee, that ye made 
One light together, but has past and leaves 
The Crown a lonely splendor. 



May all love, 
His love, nnseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee, 
The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee, 
The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee, 
The love of all Thy people comfort Thee, 
Till God's love set Thee at his side again 1 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 

LEonoGnAN, the King of Cameliard, 
Had one fair daughter, and none other child; 
And she was fairest of all flesh on earth, 
Guinevere, and in her his one delight. 

For many a petty king ere Arthur came 
Ruled in this isle, and ever waging war 
Each upon other, wasted all the land ; 
And still from time to time the heathen host 
Swarm'd overseas, and harried what was left. 
And so there grew great tracts of wilderness. 
Wherein the beast was ever more and more, 
But man was less and less, till Arthur came. 
For first Aurelius lived and fought and died. 
And after him King Uther fought and died. 
But either fail'd to make the kingdom one. 
And after these King Arthur for a space. 
And thro' the puissance of his Table Round, 
Drew all their petty princedoms under him. 
Their king and head, and made a realm, and reigu'd. 

And thus the land of Cameliard was waste. 
Thick with wet woods, and many a beast therein. 
And none or few to scare or chase the beast; 
So that wild dog, and wolf and boar and bear 
Came night and day, and rooted in the fields. 
And wallow'd in the gardens of the King. 
And ever and anon the wolf would steal 
The children and devour, but now and then, 
Her own brood lost or dead, lent her fierce teat 
To human sucklimxs ; and the children, housed 
In her foul den, there at their meat would growl, 
And mocktheir foster-mother on four feet, 
Till, straighteu'd, they grew uj) to wolf-like men, 
Worse than the wolves. And King Leodograu 
Groan'd for the Roman legions here again. 
And Cffisar's eagle: then his brother king, 
Urien, assail'd him : last a heathen horde, 
Reddening the sun with smoke and earth with blood. 
And on the spike that split the mother's heart 
Si)ittiug the child, brake on him, till, amazed, 
He knew not whither he should turn for aid. 



THE COMING OF AKTHUR. 



149 



But — for he heard of Arthur uewly crown'd, 
Tho' not without an uproar made by those 
Who cried, "He is not Uther's sou" — the King 
Sent to him, sayiuir, "Arise, and help us, thou! 
For here between the man and beast we die." 

And Arthur yet had done no deed of arms, 
But heard the call, aud came: and Guinevere 
Stood by the castle walls to watch him pass ; 
But since he neither wore on helm or shield 
The golden symbol of his kinglihood, 
But rode a simple knight among his knights, 
And many of these in richer arms than he, 
She saw him not, or mark'd not, if she saw, 
One among many, tho' his face was bare. 
But Arthur, looking downward as he past. 
Felt the light of her eyes into his life 
Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, ami pitch'd 
His tents beside the forest. Then he drave 
The heathen, after slew the beast, and fell'd 
The forest, letting iu the sun, and made 
Broad pathways for the hunter and the knight. 
And so return'd. 

For while he linger'd there, 
A doubt that ever smonlder'd in the hearts 
Of those great lords and barons of his realm 
Flash'd forth and into war: for most of these, 
Colleaguing with a score of petty kings, 
Made head against him, crying, "Who is he 
That he should rule ns? who hath proven him 
King Uther's son ? for lo ! we look at him. 
And find nor face nor bearing, limbs nor voice. 
Are like to those of Uther whom we knew. 
This is the sou of Gorlois, not the King ; 
This is the sou of Anton, not the King." 

And Arthur, passing thenee to battle, felt 
\Travail, and throes and agonies of the life, 
Desiring to be joiu'd with Guinevere; 
And thinking as he rode, "Her fiither said 
That there between the man and beast they die. 
Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts 
Up to my throne, and side by side with me? 
What happiness to reign a lonely king, 
Vext— O ye stars that shudder over me, 

earth that soundest hollow under me — 
Vext with waste dreams ? for saving I be joiu'd 
To her that is the fairest under heaven, 

1 seem as nothing in the mighty world, 
And cannot will my will, nor work my work 
Wholly, nor make myself iu mine own realm 
Victor and lord. But were I join'd with her, 
Then might we live together as one life. 
And reigning with one will in everything 
Have power on this dark land to lighten it, 
And power on this dead world to make it live." 

Thereafter— as he speaks who tells the tale— 
'When Arthur reach'd a lield-of-battle bright 
With pitch'd pavilions of his foe, the world 
Was all so clear about him, that he saw 
The smallest rock far on the faintest hill, 
And even in high day the morning star. 
So when the King had set his banner broad. 
At once from either side, with trumpet-blast, 
And shouts, and clarions shrilling unto blood. 
The long-lanced battle let their horses run. 
And now the barons and the kings prevail'd 
And now the King, as here and there that war 
Went swaying; but the Powers who walk the wovld 
Made lightnings and great thunders over him, 
And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by main might, 
And mightier of his hands with every blow. 
And leading all his knighthood threw the kings 
Carados, Urien, Cradlemont of Wales, 
Claudias, and Clariance of Northumberland, 
The King Brandagoras of Latangor, 



With Angnisant of Erin, Morganore, 

And Lot of Orkney. Then, before a voice 

As dreadful as the shout of one who sees 

To one who sins, and deems himself alone 

And all the world asleep, they swerved and brake 

Flying, and Arthur call'd to stay the brands 

That hack'd among the flyers, "Hoi they yield!" 

So like a painted battle tlic war stood 

Silenced, the living quiet as the dead, 

And in the heart of Arthur joy was lord. 

He laugh'd upon his warrior whom he loved 

And honor'd most. " Thou dost not doubt me King, 

So well thine arm hath wrought for me to-day." 

"Sir and my liege," he cried, "the tire of God 

Descends upon thee in the battlc-lield : 

I know thee for my King!" Whereat the two. 

For each had warded either in the tight, 

Sware on the field of death a deathless love. 

And Arthur said, {'Man's word is God in man: 

Let chance what will, I trust thee to the death." 

Then quickly from the fonghten field he sent 
Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere, 
His new-made knights, to King Leodogran, 
Saying, " If I iu aught have served thee well, 
Give me thy daughter Guinevere to wife." 

Whom when he heard, Leodogran iu heart 
Debating— "How should I that am a king, 
However much he holp me at my need, 
Give my one daughter saving to a king, 
And a king's son ?"— lifted his voice, and call'd 
A hoary man, his chamberlain, to whom 
He trusted all things, and of him required 
His counsel : "Knowest thou aught of Arthur's birth ?" 

Then spake the hoary chamberlain and said, 
"Sir King, there be but two old men that know: 
And each is twice as old as I ; and one 
Is Merlin, the wise man that ever served 
King Uther thro' his magic art ; and one 
Is Merlin's master (so they call him) Bleys, 
Who taught him magic ; but the scholar rau 
Before the master, and so far, that Bleys 
Laid magic by, and sat him down, and wrote 
All things and whatsoever Merlin did 
In one great annal-book, where after-years 
Will learn the secret of our Arthur's bi-rth." 

To whom the King Leodogran replied, 
"O friend, had I been holpeii^half as well 
By this King Arthur as by thee to-day. 
Then beast and man had had their share of met 
But summon here before us yet once more 
Ulflus, and Brastias, and Bedivere." 

Then, when they came before him, the King said, 
" I have seen the cuckoa chased by lesser fawl, 
And reason in the chase: but wherefore now 
Do these your lords stir up the heat of war, 
Some calling Arthur born of Gorlois, 
Others of Anton ? Tell me, ye yourselves. 
Hold ye this Arthur for King Other's ssn ?" 

And LTlfius and Brastias answer'd, "Ay." 
Then Bedivere, the first of all his knights 
Knighted by Arthur at his crowning, spake— 
For bold iu heart and act and word was he. 
Whenever slander breathed against the King— 

"Sir, there be many rumors on this head: 
For there be those who hate him in their hearts. 
Call him base-bori^ and, since his ways are sweet 
And theirs are bestial, hold him less than man: 
And there be th()se who deem him more than man, 
And dream he dropt from heaven: but my belief 
In all this matter— so ye care to Icaru— 
Sir, for ye know that in King Uther's time 



150 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



The prince and warrior Gorlois, he that held 

Tiutagil castle by the Cornish sea, 

Was wedded with a winsome wife, Ygerne: 

And daughters had she borne him,— one whereof, 

Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Belliceut, 

Hath ever like a loyal sister cleaved 

To Arthur,— but a son she had not borne. 

And Uther cast upon her eyes of love: 

But she, a stainless wife to Gorlois, 

So loathed the bright dishonor of his love, 

That Gorlois and King Uther went To war: 

And overthrown was (Jorlois and slain. 

Then Uther in his wrath and heat besieged 

Ygerne within Tiutagil, where her men, 

Seeing the mighty swarm about their walls. 

Left her and fled, and Uther enter'd in. 

And there was none to call to but himself. 

So, compass'd by the power of the King, 

Enforced she was to wed him in her tears, 

And with a shameful swiftness : afterward, 

Not many moons. King Uther died himself, 

Moaning and wailing for an heir to rule 

After him, lest the realm should go to wrack. 

And that same night, the night of the new year. 

By reason of the bitterness and grief 

That vext his mother, all before his time 

Was Arthur born, and all as soon as born 

Deliver'd at a secret postern-gate 

To Merlin, to be holdeu far apart 

Until his hour should come ; because the lords 

Of that tierce day were as the lords of this. 

Wild beasts, and surely would have torn the child 

Piecemeal among them, had they known ; for e.nch 

But sought to rule for his own self and hand. 

And many hated Uther for the sake 

Of Gorlois. (Wherefore Merlin took the child. 

And gave him to Sir Anton, an old knight 

And ancient friend of Uther; and his wife 

Nursed the young prince, and rear'd him with her 

own ; 
And no man knew. And ever since the lords 
ILive foughten like wild beasts among themselves. 
So that the realm has gone to wrack: but now, 
This year, when Merlin (for his hour had come) 
Brought Arthur forth, aud set him in the hall. 
Proclaiming, 'Here is Uther's heir, your king,' 
A hundred voices cried, 'Away with him! 
No king of ours ! a son of Gorlois he. 
Or else the child of Anton, and no king. 
Or else base-born.' Yet Merlin thro' his craft. 
And while the people clamor'd for a king, 
Had Arthur crown'd ; but after, the great lords 
Banded, and so brake out in open war." 

Then while the King debated with himself 
If Arthur were the child of shamefulness, 
Or born the son of Gorlois, after death, 
Or Uther's son, aud born before his time. 
Or whether there were truth in anything 
Said by these three, there came to Cameliard, 
With Gawain and young Modred, her two sons. 
Lot's wife, the Queen of Orkney, Bellicent ; 
Whom as he could, not as he would, the King 
Made feast for, saying, as they sat at meat, 

"A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas. 
Ye come from Arthur's court. Victor his men 
Report him ! Yea, but ye— think ye this king- 
So many tliose tliat hate him, and so strong. 
So few his knights, however brave they be — 
Hath body enow to hold his foemeu down ?" 

"O King," she cried, "and I will tell thee: few. 
Few, but all brave, all of one mind with him; 
For I was near him when the savage yells 
Of Uther's peerage) died, and Arthur sat 
Crown'd on the dais, and hia warriors cried, 
'Be thou tlic king, and we will work thy wiU 



Who love thee.' Then the King, in low deep tones, 

And simple words of great authority. 

Bound them by so strait vows to his own self. 

That when they rose, knighted from kneeling, some 

Were pale as at the passing of a ghost, 

Some flush'd, and others dazed, as one who wakes 

Half-blinded at the coming of a light. 

"But when he spake and cheer'd his Table Rouu(? 
With large divine aud comfortable words 
Beyond my tongue to tell thee— I beheld 
From eye to eye thro' all their Order flash 
A momentary likeness of the King: 
And ere it left their faces, thro' the cross 
And those around it and the Crncitied, 
Down from the casement over Arthur, smote 
Flame-color, vert and azur^iu three rays, 
One falling upon each of three fair queens, 
Who stood in silence near his throne, the friends 
Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with bright 
Sweet faces, who will help him at his need. 

"And there I saw mage Merlin, whose vast wit 
And hnndi-ed winters are but as the hands 
Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege. 

"And near him stood the Lady of the Lake, 
Who knows a subtler magic than his own — 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderfnl. 
She gave the King his huge cross-hilted sword, 
Whereby to drive the heathen out: a mist 
Of incense curl'd about her, aud her face 
Wellnigh was hidden in the minster gloom; 
'But there was heard among the holy hymns . 
A voice as of the waters, for she dwells 
Down in a deep, calm, whatsoever storms 
May shake the world, and when the surface roiJs, 
Hath power to walk the waters like our Lord. 

"There likewise I beheld Excalibur 
Before him at his crowning borne, the sword 
That rose from ont the bosom of the lake. 
And Arthur row'd across and took it — rich 
With jewels, elfln Urim, on the hilt. 
Bewildering heart and eye — the blade so bright 
That men are blinded by it — on one side. 
Graven in the oldest tongne of all this world, 
'Take me,' but turn the blade and ye shall see, 
Aud written in the speech ye speak yourself, 
'Cast me away!' And sad was Arthur's face 
Taking it, but old Merlin counscll'd him, 
'Take thou and strike! the time to caat away 
Is yet far-off.' So this great brand the King 
Took, and by this will beat his foemeu down." 

Thereat Leodogran rejoiced, but thought 
To sift his doublings to the last, and ask'd, 
Fixing full eyes of question on her face, 
"The swallow and the swift are near akin. 
But thou art closer to this noble prince. 
Being his own dear sister ;" and she said, 
"Daughter of Gorlois and Ygerne am I;" 
"And therefore Arthur's sister," ask'd the King. 
She answer'd, "These be secret things," and sign'd 
To tliose two sous to pass and let them be. 
And Gawain went, and breaking into song 
Sprang out, and follow'd by his flying hair 
Ran like a colt, and leapt at all he saw: 
But Modred laid his ear beside the doors, 
Aud there half heard ; the same that afterward 
Struck for the throne, and striking found his doom 

And then the Queen made answer, "What know 1 ; 
For dark my mother was in eyes and hair. 
And dark in hair and eyes am I ; and dark 
Was Gorlois, yea and dark was Uther too, 
Wellnigh to blackness; but this King is fair 
Beyond the race of Britons and of men. 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR. 



Ul 



Moreover, always iu my inind I hear 

A cry from out the dawning of my life, 

A mother weopiu", and I hear her say, 

'O that ye had some brother, pretty one. 

To guard thee on the rough ways of the world.' " 

^'Ay," said the King, "and hear ye such a cry? 
But when did Arthur chance upon thee first?" 

"O Kiug'."she cried, "and I will tel! thee true: 
He found me first when yet a little maid. 
Beaten I had been for a little fault 
Whereof I was not guilty; and out I ran 
And flung myself down on a bank of heath, 
And hated this fair world and all therein, 
And wept and wish'd that I were dead; and he — 
I know not whether of himself he came, 
Or brought by Merlin, who, they say, can walk 
Unseen at pleasure^he was at my side. 
And spake sweet words, and comforted my heart. 
And dried my tears, being a child with me. 
And many a time he came, and evermore 
As I grew greater grew with me; and sad 
At times he seem'd, and sad with him was I, 
Stern too at times, and then I loved him not, 
But sweet again, and then I loved him well. 
And now of late I see him less and less. 
But those first days had golden hours for me, 
For then I surely thought he would be king. 

"But let me tell thee now another tale: 
For Bleys, our Merlin's master, as they say. 
Died but of late, and sent his cry to me. 
To hear him speak before he left his life. 
Shrunk like a fairy changeling lay the mage ; 
And when I enter'd told me that himself 
And Merlin ever served about the King, 
Uther, before he died ; and on the night 
When Uther in Tiutagil past away 
Moaning and wailing for an heir, the two 
Left the still King, and passing forth to breathe. 
Then from the castle gateway by the chasm 
Descending thro' the dismal night— a night 
In which the bounds of heaven and earth were lost — 
Beheld, so high upon the dreary deeps 
It seem'd in heaven, a sliip, the shape thereof 
A dragon wing'd, and all from stem to stern 
Bright with a shining people on the decks. 
And gone as soon as seen. And then the two 
Dropt to the cove, and watch'd the great sea fall. 
Wave after wave, each mightier than the last. 
Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep 
And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged 
Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame: 
And down the wave and in the flame was borne 
A naked babe, and rode to Merlin's feet. 
Who stoopt and caught the babe, and cried, ' The 

King ! 
Here is an heir for Uther !' And the fringe 
Of that great breaker, sweeping up the strand, 
Lash'd at the wizard as he spake the word. 
And all at once all round him rose in fire. 
So that the child and he were clothed iu fire. 
And ])resently thereafter follow'd calm. 
Free sky and stars: 'And this same child,' he said, 
'Is he who reigns; nor could I part in peace 
Till this were told.' And saying this the seer 
Went thro' the strait and dreadful pass of death, 
Not ever to be question'd any more 
Save on the farther side ; but when I met 
Merlin, and ask'd him if these things were truth — 
The shining dragon and the naked child 
Descending in the glory of the seas- 
He laugh'd as is his wont, and answer'd me 
In riddling triplets of old time, aud said : 

" ' Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow iu the sky ! 
A youug man will be wiser by and by ; 



An old man's wit may wander ere he die. 

Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow on the leal 
And truth is this to me, and that to thee; 
And truth or clothad or naked let it be. 

Rain, sun, and rain ! and the free blossom blows. 
Sun, rain, and sun ! aud where is he who knows ? 
From the great deep to the great deep he goes.' 

" So Merlin riddling anger'd me ; but thou 
Fear not to give this King thine only child, 
Guinevere: so great bards of him will sing 
Hereafter ; and dark sayings from of old 
Ranging and ringing thro' the minds of men. 
And echo'd by old folk beside their fires 
For comfort after their wage-work is done, 
Speak of the King ; and Merlin in our time 
Hath spoken also, not in jest, and sworn 
Tho' meu may wound him that he will not die. 
But pass, again to come ; and then or now 
Utterly smite the heathen underfoot, 
Till these and all men hail him for their king." 

She spake and King Leodogran rejoiced. 
But musing " Shall I answer yea or nay ?" 
Doubted and drowsed, nodded and slept, and saw, 
Dreaming, a slope of land that ever grew. 
Field after field, up to a height, the peak 
Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom king, 
Now looming, and now lost: and on the slope 
Tiie sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was driven. 
Fire glimpsed ; and all the land from roof and rick. 
In drifts of smoke before a rolling wind, 
Stream'd to the peak, and mingled willi the baze 
And made it thicker; while the phantom king 
Sent out at times a voice ; and here or there 
Stood one who pointed toward the voice, the rest 
Slew on and burnt, crying, " No king of ours. 
No son of Uther, and no king of ours ;" 
Till with a wink his dream was changed, the haze 
Descended, and the solid earth became 
As nothing, but the king stood out in heaven, 
Crown'd. And Leodogran awoke, aud sent 
Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere, 
Back to the court of Arthur answering yea. 

Then Arthur charged his warrior whom he loved 
And honor'd most. Sir Lancelot, to ride forth 
And bring the Queen ;— and watch'd him from the 

gates : 
And Lancelot past away among the flowers 
(For then was latter April) and return'd 
Among the flowers, iu May, with Guinevere. 
To whom arrived, by Dubric the high saint, 
Chief of the church iu Britain, and before 
The stateliest of her altar-shrines, the King 
That morn was married, while in stainless white. 
The fair beginners of a nobler time. 
And glorying in their vows and him, his Icnights 
Stood round him, and rejoicing in his joy. 
Far shone the fields of May thro' open door. 
The sacred altar blossom'd white with May, 
The Sun of May descended on their King, 
They gazed on all earth's beauty in their Queen, 
Roll'd incense, and there past along the hymns 
A voice as of the waters, while the two 
Sware at the shriue of Christ a deathless love: 
And Arthur said, "Behold, thy doom is mine. 
Let chance what will, I love thee to the death !" 
To whom the Queen replied with drooping eyes, 
"King and my lord, I love thee to the death !" 
And holy Dubric spread his hands and spake, 
"Reign ye, and live and love, and make the world 
Other, and may thy Queen be one with thee, 
And all this Order of thy Table Round 
Fulfil the boundless purpose of th^ir King !" 

So Dubric said ; but when they left the shrine 
Great lords from Rome before the portal stood. 



152 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



lu Bcornftil stillness gazing as they past; 

Then while tlicy paced a city all on fire 

With sun and c\oth of gold, the trumpets blew, 

Aud Arthur's knighthood sang before the King:— 

" Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May ; 
Blow trumpet, the long night hath roll'd away ! 
Blow thro' the living world— 'Let the King reign.' 

"Shall Rome or heathen rule in Arthur's rer.lm? 
Flash brand and lance, fall battleaxe upon helm. 
Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let the King reign. 

"Strike for the King aud live! his knights have 
heard 
That God hath told the King a secret word. 
Fall battleaxe, aud flash brand ! Let the King reign. 

"Blow trumpet! he will lift us from the dust. 
Blow trumpet! live the strength and die the lust! 
Clang battleaxe, and clash brand ! Let the King 
reign. 

" Strike for the King and die ! and if thou diest, 
The King is King, and ever wills the highest. 
Clang battleaxe, and clash brand ! Let the King 
reign. 

" Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his May ! 
Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by day! 
Clang battleaxe, aud clash brand ! Let the King 
reign. 

"The King will follow Christ, and we the King 
In whom high God hath breathed a secret thing. 
Fall battleaxe, and flash brand ! Let the King reign." 

So sang the knighthood, moving to their hall. 
There at the banquet those great lords from Eome, 
The slowly-fading mistress of the world. 
Strode in, and claim'd their tribute as of yore. 
But Arthur spake, "Behold, for these have sworn 
To wage my wars, and worship me their King; 
The old order chaugeth, yielding place to new; 
And we that fight for our fair father Christ, 
Seeing that ye be grown too weak and old 
To drive the heathen from your Eomau wall. 
No tribute will we pay:" so those great lords 
Drew back in wrath, and Arthur strove with Rome. 

And Arthur and his knighthood for a space 
Were all one will, and thro' that strength the King 
Drew in the petty princedoms under liim. 
Fought, and in twelve great battles overcame 
The heathen hordes, aud made a realm aud reign'd. 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 

The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, 

And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring 

Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine 

Lost footing, fell, and so was whirl'd away. 

"How he went down," said Gareth, " as a false knight 

Or evil king before my lance if lance 

Were mine to use — O senseless cataract, 

Bearing all down in thy precipitancy — 

Aud yet thou art but swollen with cold snows 

And mine is living blood: thou dost His will, 

Tlie Maker's, and not knowest, and I that know. 

Have strength and wit, in my good mother's hall 

Linger with vacillating obedience, 

Prison'd, and kept and coax'd aud whistled to — 

Since the good mother holds me still a child ! 

Good mother is bad mother unto me ! 

A worse were better; yet no worse would I. 

Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force 

To weary her ears with one continuous prayer. 



Until she let me fly discaged to sweep 

In ever-highering eagle-circles up 

To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop 

Down upon all things base, aud dash them dead, 

A knight of Arthur, working out his will. 

To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came 

With Modred hither iu the summertime, 

Ask'd me to tilt with him, the proven knight. 

Modred for want of worthier was the judge. 

Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said, 

' Thou hast half prevail'd against me,' said so — he — 

Tho' Modred biting his thin lips was mute, 

For he is alway sullen : what care I ?" 

And Gareth went, and hovering round her chair 
Ask'd, "Mother, tho' ye count me still the child. 
Sweet mother, do ye love the child ?" She langh'd, 
"Thou art but a wild-goose to question it." 
" Then, mother, an ye love the child," he said, 
" Being a goose and rather tame than wild. 
Hear the child's story." " Yea, my well-beloved, 
An 'twere but of the goose aud golden eggs." 

And Gareth answer'd her with liindling eyes, 
" Nay, nay, good mother, but this egg of mine 
Was finer gold than any goose can lay; 
For this an Eagle, a royal Eagle, laid 
Almost beyond eye-reach, on such a palm 
As glitters gilded iu thy Book of Hours. 
And there was ever haunting round the palm 
A lusty youth, but jioor, who often saw 
The splendor sparkling from aloft, and thought 
'An I could climb and lay my hand upon it. 
Then were I wealthier than a leash of kings.' 
But ever when he reach'd a liand to climb, 
One, that had loved him from liis childhood, caught 
And stay'd him, 'Climb not lest thou break thy neck, 
I charge thee by my love,' aud so the boy, 
Sweet mother, neither clomb, nor brake his neck, 
But brake his very heart in pining for it, 
Aud past away." 

To whom the mother said, 
"True love, sweet son, had risk'd himself and climb'd, 
Aud hauded down the golden treasure to him." 

And Gareth answer'd her with kindliug eyes, 
"Gold? said I gold ?— ay then, why he, or she, 
Or whosoe'er it was, or half tlie world 
Had ventured— /tad the thing I spake of been 
Mere gold— but this was all of that true steel 
Whereof they forged the brand Excalibur, 
And lightnings play'd about it in the storm. 
And all the little fowl were flurried at it, 
Aud there were cries and clashiugs in the nest, 
That sent him from his senses: let me go." 

Then Bellicent bemoan'd herself and said, 
"Hast thou no pity upon my loneliness? 
Lo, where thy father Lot beside the hearth 
Lies like a log, and all but smonlder'd out! 
For ever since when traitor to the King 
He fought against him in the Barons' war, 
Aud Arthur gave him back his territory, 
His age hath slowly droopt, and now lies there 
A yet-warm corpse, aud yet unburiable. 
No more ; nor sees, nor hears, nor speaks, nor knows 
Aud both thy brethren are in Arthur's ball. 
Albeit neither loved with that full love ^ 

I feel for thee, nor worthy such a love : 
Stay therefore thou ; red berries charm the bird 
Aud thee, mine innocent, the jousts, the wars, 
Who never knewest finger-ache, nor pang 
Of wrench'd or l)roken limb— an often chance 
In those brain-stunning shocks, and tourney-falls, 
Frights to my heart ; but stay : follow the deer 
By these tall firs and our fast-falling burns; 
So make thy manhood mightier day by day ; 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



153 



Sweet is the chase : aud I will seek thee out 

Some comfortable bride and fair, to j;race 

Thy cnmbiug life, and cherish my prune year. 

Till falling into Lot's forgetfuluess 

I kuow not thee, myself, nor anything. 

iStay, my best son ! ye are yet more boy than man." 

TLen Gareth, "An ye hold me yet for child. 
Hear yet once more the story of the child. 
For, mother, there was once a King, like ours ; 
The prince his heir, when tall and marriageable, 
Ask'd for a bride; aud thereupon the King 
Set two before him. One was fair, strong, arm'd— 
But to be won by force— aud many men 
Desired her; one, good lack, no man desired. 
Aud these were the conditions of the King: 
That save he won the tirst by force, he needs 
Must wed that other, whom no man desired, 
A red-faced bride who knew herself so vile, 
That evermore she loug'd to hide herself. 
Nor fronted man or woman, eye to eye- 
Yea— some she cleaved to, but they died of her. 
And one— they call'd her Fame ; and one,- O mother, 
How can ye keep mo tether'd to yon— Shame ! 
Man am I grown, a man's work must I do. 
Follow the deer? follow the Christ, the King, 
Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King— 
Else, wherefore born ?" 

To whom the mother said, 
"Sweet eon, for there be many who deem him not, 
Or will not deem him, wholly proven King— 
Albeit in mine own heart I kuew him King, 
When I was frequeut with him in my youth, 
And heard him Kiugly speak, and doubted him 
No more thau he, himself; but felt him mine, 
Of closest kin to me : yet— wilt thou leave 
Thine easeful biding here, and risk thine all, 
Life, limbs, for one that is not proven King? 
Sta}', till the cloud that settles round his birth 
Hath lifted but a little. Stay, sweet son." 

Aud Gareth answer'd quickly, "Not an hour, 
So that ye yield me— I will walk thro' fire, 
Mother, to gain it— your full leave to go. 
Not proveu, who swejit the dust of rnin'd Rome 
From off the threshold of the realm, and crush'd 
The Idolaters, and made the people free ? 
Who should be King save him who makes us free ?" 

So when the Qneen, who long had sought in vain 
To break him from the intent to which he grew, 
Found her son's will unwaveringly one. 
She answer'd craftily, "Will ye walk thro' flre ? 
Who walks thro' flre will hardly heed the smoke. 
Ay, go then, an ye must : only one proof. 
Before thou ask the King to malie thee knight, 
Of thine obedieuce and thy love to me, 
Thy mother, — I demand." 

And Gareth cried, 
"A hard one, or a hundred, so I go. 
Nay— quick ! the proof to prove me to the quick '." 

But slowly spake the mother, looking at him, 
"Prince, thou shalt go disguised to Arthur's hall, 
Aud hire thyself to serve for meats and drinks 
Among the scullious and the kitchen-knaves. 
And those that hand the dish across the bar. 
Nor shalt thou tell thy name to anyone. 
And thou shalt serve a twelvemonth aud a day." 

For so the Queen believed that when her son 
Behe'd his only way to glory lead 
Low dowu thro' villain kitchen-vnssalage, 
Her own true Gareth was too princely-proud 
To pass thereby; so should he rest witli her 
Closed in her castle from the sound of arms. 



Silent awhile was Gareth, then replied, 
" The thrall iu person may be free in soul. 
And I shall see the jousts. Thy sou am I, 
And since thou art my mother, must obey. 
I therefore yield me freely to thy will ; 
For hence will I, disguised, and hire myself 
To serve with scullions and with kitchen-knaves; 
Nor tell my name to any— no, not the King." 

Gareth awhile linger'd. The mother's eye 
Full of the wistful fear that he would go. 
And turning toward him wheresoe'er he tnrn'd, 
Perplext his outward purpose, till an hour, 
When waken'd by the wind which with full voice 
Swept bellowing thro' the darkness on to dawn. 
He rose, aud out of slumber calling two 
That still had tended on him from his birth. 
Before the wakeful mother heard him, went. 

The three were clad like tillers of the soil. 
Southward they set their faces. The birds made 
Melody on branch, and melody in mid-air. 
The damp hill-slopes were quickeu'd into green, 
And the live green had kindled into flowers. 
For it was past the time of Easterday. 

So, when their feet were planted on the plain 
That broaden'd toward the base of Camelot, 
Far off they saw the silver-misty morn 
Rolling her smoke about the royal mount. 
That rose between the forest and the field. 
At times the summit of the high city flash'd; 
At times the spires aud turrets half-way dowu 
Prick'd thro' the mist : at times the great gate shone 
Only, that open'd on the field below: 
Anon, the whole fair city had disappeai-'d. 

Then those who went with Gareth were amazed. 
One crying, "Let us go no farther, lord. 
Here is a city of Enchanters, built 
By fairy kings." The second echo'd him, 
"Lord, we have heard from our wise men at home 
To Northward, that this King is not the King, 
But only changeling out of Fairyland, 
Who drave the heathen hence by sorcery 
And Merlin's glamour." Then the first again, 
"Lord, there is no such city anywhere. 
But all a vision." 

Gareth answer'd them 
With laughter, swearing he had glamour enow 
In his own blood, his princedom, youth, and hopes, 
To plunge old Merlin in the Arabian Sea; 
So push'd them all unwilling toward the gate. 
And there was no gate like it under heaven. 
For barefoot on the key-stone, which was lined 
And rippled like an ever-fleeting wave, 
The Lady of the Lake stood : all her dress 
Wept from her sides as water flowing away; 
But like the cross her great and goodly arms 
Stretch'd under all the cornice and upheld : 
And drops of water fell from either hand ; 
And down from <uie a sword was hung, from one 
A censer, either worn with wind and storm ; 
And o'er her breast floated the sacred fish ; 
And in the space to left of her, and right. 
Were Arthur's wars in weird devices done. 
New things and old co-twisted, as if Time 
Were nothing, so inveteraiely, that men 
Were giddy gazing there ; and over all 
High on the top were those three queens, the friends 
Of^Arthur, who should help him at his need. 

Then those with Gareth for so long a space 
Stared at the figures, that at last it seem'd 
The dragon-boughts aud elvish emblemings 
Began to move, seethe, twine, aud curl : they call'd 
To^Gareth, " Lord, the gateway is alive." 



154 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



And Gareth likewise ou them fixt liis eyes 
So loucr, thai ev'n to liim they seem'd to move. 
Out of the city a blast of music peal'd. 
Back from the gate started the three, to \vhom 
From out thereunder came au ancient mau, 
Long-bearded, sayiug, " Who be ye, my sous ?" 

Then Gareth, " We be tillers of the soil, 
Who leaving share in furrow come to see 
The glories of our King: but these, my men 
(Your city moved so weirdly in the mist). 
Doubt if the King be King at all, or come 
From Fairyland; and whether this be built 
By magic, and by fairy kings aud queens; 
Or whether there be any city at all. 
Or all a vision : and this music now 
Hath scared them both, but tell thou these the truth." 

Then that old Seer made answer, playing on him, 
Aud saying, "Son, I have seen the good ship sail 
Keel upward aud mast downward in the heavens, 
Aud solid turrets topsy-turvy in air: 
And here is truth ; but an it please thee not. 
Take thou the truth as thou hast told it me. 
For truly, as thou sayest, a fairy kiug 
And fairy queens have built the city, son ; 
They came from tnit a sacred mountain-cleft 
Toward the sunrise, each with harj) in hand, 
Aud l)uilt it to the music of their harps. 
And as thou sayest it is enchanted, son, 
For there is nothing in it as it seems 
Saving the King ; tho' some there be that hold 
The King a shadow, and the city real : 
Yet talvc thou heed of him, for so thou pass 
Beneath this archway, then wilt thou become 
A thrall to his enchantments, for the King 
Will bind thee by such vows, as is a shame 
A man should not be bound by, yet the which 
No man can keep; but, so thou dread to swear. 
Pass not beneath this gateway, but abide 
Without, amoug the cattle of the field. 
For, au ye heard a music, like enow 
They are building still, seeing the city is built 
To music, therefore never built at all, 
And therefore built for ever." 

Gareth spake 
Anger'd, "Old Master, reverence thine own beard 
That looks as white as utter truth, aud seems 
Wellnigh as long as thou art statured tall ! 
Why mockest thou the stranger that hath been 
To thee fair-spoken ?" 

But the Seer replied, 
"Know ye not then the Riddling of the Bards? 
'Confusion, and illusion, aud relation. 
Elusion, and occasion, and evasion?" 
I mock thee not but as thou mockest me, 
And all that see thee, for thou art not who 
Thou seemest, but I know thee who thou art. 
And now thou goest up to mock the King, 
Who cannot brook the shadow of any lie." 

Unmockingly the mocker ending here 
Turu'd to the right, and past along the plain ; 
Whom Gareth looking after said, " Jly men. 
Our one white lie sits like a little ghost 
Here on the threshold of our enterprise. 
Let love be blamed for it, not she, nor I: 
Well, we will make amends." 

With all good cheer 
Be ppake and laugh'd, then enter'd with his twain 
Camelot, a city of shadowy palaces 
And statelj', rich in emblem and the work 
Of ancient kings who did their days iu stone ; 
Which Merlin's hand, the Mage at Arthur's court. 
Knowing all arts, had touch'd, and everywhere. 



At Arthur's ordinance, tipt with lessening peak 
Aud pinnacle, and had made it spire to heaveu. 
And ever and anon a knight would pass 
Outward, or inward to the hall : his arms 
C'lash'd ; aud the souud was good to Gareth's ear. 
Aud out of bower and casement shyly glanced 
Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of love ; 
Aud all about a healthful people stept 
As In the presence of a gracious king. 

Then into hall Gareth ascending heard 
A voice, the voice of Arthur, and beheld 
Far over heads in that long-vaulted hall 
The splendor of the presence of the Kiug 
Throned, and delivering doom — aud look'd no more— • 
But felt his young heart hammering in liis ears. 
And thought, "For this half-shadow of a lie 
The truthful King will doom me when I speak." 
Yet pressing on, tho' all iu fear to find 
Sir Gawaiu or Sir Modred, saw uor one 
Nor other, but in all the listening eyes 
Of those tall knights, that ranged about the throne. 
Clear honor shining like the dewy star 
Of dawn, and faith in their great King, with pure 
Affection, aud the light of victory. 
And glory gaiu'd, and evermore to gain. 

Then came a widow crying to the Kiug, 
"A boon. Sir King ! Thy father, Uther, reft 
From my dead lord a field with violence: 
For howsoe'er at first he profter'd gold. 
Yet, for the field was pleasant in our eyes. 
We yielded not ; and then he reft us of it 
Perforce, and left us neither gold nor field." 

Said Arthur, "W'hether would ye? gold or field?" 
To whom the woman weeping, "Nay, my lord, 
The field was pleasant in my husband's eye." 

And Arthur, "Have thy plcasaut field again, 
And thrice the gold for Uther's use thereof, 
According to the years. No boon is here. 
But justice, so thy say be proven true. 
Accursed, who from the wrongs his father did 
Would shape himself a right 1" 

And while she past, 
Came yet another widow cry/ng to him, 
"A boon. Sir King! Thine enemy. King, am I. 
With thine own hand thou slewest my dear lord, 
A knight of Uther iu the Barons' war. 
When Lot and mauy another rose and fought 
Against thee, sayiug thou wert basely born. 
I held with these, and loathe to ask thee aught. 
Yet lo ! my husband's brother had my smi 
Thrall'd iu his castle, and hath starved him dead ; 
And standelh seized of that inheritance 
Which thou that slewest the sire hast left the son. 
So tho' I scarce can ask it thee for hate, 
Grant me some knight to do the battle for me. 
Kill the foul thief, and wreak me for my son." 

Then strode a good knight forward, crying to him, 
"A boon, Sir King! I am her kinsman, I. 
Give me to right her wrong, and slay the mau." 

Then came Sir Kay, the seneschal, and cried, 
"A boon. Sir King! ev'n that thou grant her none. 
This railer, that hath mnck"d thee iu fall hall — 
None ; or the wholesome boon of gyve and gag." 

But Arthur, "We sit Kiug, to help the wrong'd 
Thro' all our realm. The woman loves her lord. 
Peace to thee, woman, with thy loves and hates ! 
The kings of old had doom'd thee to the flames, 
Aurelius Emrys would have scourged thee dead, 
Aud Uther slit thy tongue: but get thee hence— 
Lest that rough hijnior of the kings of old 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



155 



Return iipou me ! Thou that art her kin, 

Go likewise ; lay him low and slay him not, 

But bring hiui here, that 1 may judge the right, 

According to the justice of the King: 

Tlieu, be he guilty, by that deathless King 

Who lived and died for men, the man shall die." 

Then came in hall the messenger of Mark, 
A name of evil savor in the land, 
The Cornish king. In either hand he bore 
What dazzled all, and shone far-off as shines 
A field of charlock in the sudden sun 
Between two showers, a cloth of palest gold. 
Which down he laid before the throne, and knelt. 
Delivering, that his lord, the vassal king, 
Was ev'n upon his way to Camelot; 
For having heard that Arthur of his grace 
Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, knight, 
And, for himself was of the greater state, 
Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord 
Would yield him tliis large honor all the more ; 
So pray'd him well to accept this cloth of gold, 
In token of true heart aud feiilty. 

Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to rend 
In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth. 
An oak-tree smoulder'd there. " The goodly knight ! 
What ! shall the shield of Mark stand among tliese ?" 
For, midway down the side of that long hall 
A stately pile — whereof along the front, 
Some blazon'd, some but carveu, and some blank. 
There ran a treble range of stony shields— 
Rose, and high-arching overbrow'd the hearih. 
Aud under every shield a knight was named : 
For this was Arthur's custom in his hall ; 
When some good knight had done one noble deed, 
His arms were carven only ; but if twain 
His arms were blazon'd also ; but if none 
The shield was blank and bare, without a sign 
Saving the name beneath ; and Gareth saw 
Tlie shield of Gawain blazon'd rich and bright. 
And Mildred's blauk as death ; and Arthur cried 
To rend the cloth and cast it ou the heartli. 

"More like are we to reave him of his crown 
Thau make him knight because men call hiui king. 
The kings we found, ye know we stay'd their hands 
From war among themselves, but left them kings ; 
Of whom were any bounteous, merciful. 
Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them we enroll'd 
Among us, aud they sit within our hall. 
But jSlark hath tarnish'd the great name of king. 
As Mark would sully the low state of churl : 
Aud, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold. 
Return, and meet, aud hold him from our eyes. 
Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead. 
Silenced for ever — craven— a man of plots. 
Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambnshings— 
No fault of thine : let Kay, the seneschal, 
Look to thy wants, aud send thee satisfied- 
Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand l>e seen !" 

And many another suppliant crying came 
With noise of ravage wrought by beast and man, 
And evermore a knight would ride away. 

Last, Gareth leaning both hands heavily 
Down on the shoulders of the twain, his men, 
Approach'd between them toward the King, aud ask'd, 
"A boon, Sir King (his voice was all ashamed). 
For see ye not how weak and hungerworn 
I seem — leaning on these? grant me to serve 
For meat and driuk among thy kitchen-knaves 
A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name. 
Hereafter I will fight." 

To him the King, 
"A goodly yontli aud worth a goodlier boon ! 



But so thou wilt no goodlier, then must Kay, 
The master of the meats and drinks, be thiue." 

He rose aud past ; then Ka}', n man of mien 
Wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself 
Root-bitteu by white lichen, 

" Lo ye now I 
This fellow hath broken from some abbey, whcro, 
God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow, 
However tliat niig^it chance ; but an he work. 
Like any pigeon will I cram his crop, 
Aud sleeker shall he shine than any hog.'' 

Then Lancelot standing near, "Sir Seneschal, 
Sleuth-hound thou knowcst, aud gray, aud all the 

houuds ; 
A horse thou knowest, a man thou dost not know: 
Broad brows and fair, a fluent hair aud fine, 
High nose, a nostril large aud fine, and hands 
Large, fair and fine 1— Some young lad's mystery — 
But, or from sheepcot or king's hall, the boy 
Is uoble-natured. Treat him with all grace, 
Lest he should come to shame thy judging of him." 

Then Kay, "What mnrmurest thon of mystery? 
Think ye this fellow will poisou the King's dish? 
Nay, for he spake too fool-like : mystery ! 
Tut, an the lad were noble, he had ask'd 
For horse and armor: fair and fine, forsooth ! 
Sir Fine-face, Sir Fair-hands? but see thou to it 
That thine own fineness, Lancelot, some line day 
Undo thee not— aud leave my man to me." 

So Gareth all for glory underwent 
The sooty yoke of kitchen-vassalage ; 
Ate with youug lads his portion by the door, 
And couch'd at night with grimy kitchcn-kuaves. 
Aud Lancelot ever spake him pleasantly. 
But Kay, the seneschal, who loved him not. 
Would hustle and harry him, aud labor him 
Beycnid his comrade of the hearth, aud set 
To turn the broach, draw water, or hew wood, 
Or grosser tasks ; and Gareth bow'd himself 
With all obedience to the King, and wrought 
All kind of service with a noble ease 
That graced the lowliest act in doir.g it. 
And wlien the thralls had talk among themselves. 
And one would praise the love that linkt the King 
And Lancelot— how the King had saved his life 
In battle twice, aud Lancelot once the King's — 
For Lancelot was the first in toin-nameut. 
But Arthur migliliest on the battle-field— 
Gareth was glad. Or if some other lold, 
How once the wandering forester at dawu, 
Far over the blue tarns aud hazy seas. 
On Caer-Eryri's higliest found the King, 
A naked babe, of whom the Prophet spake, 
" He passes to the Isle Avilion, 
He passes and is heal'd aud cannot die" — 
Gareth was glad. But if their talk were foul. 
Then would he whistle rapid as any lark. 
Or carol some old roundelay, and so loud 
That first they mock'd, but, after, reverenced him. 
Or Gareth telling some i)rodigious tale 
Of knights, who sliced a red life-bubbling way 
Thro' twenty folds of twisted dragon, held 
All in a gap-mouth'd circle his good mates 
Lying or sitting round him, idle hands, 
Charm'd; till Sir Kay, the seneschal, would come 
Blustering upon them, like a sudden wind 
Among dead leaves, and drive them all apart. 
Or when the thralls had sport among themselves, 
So there were any trial of mastery, 
He, by two yards in casting bar or stone. 
Was counted best; aud if there chanced a joust. 
So that Sir Kay nodded him leave to go. 
Would hurry thither, and when he saw the knigh'i 



156 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



Clash like the coming ami retiring wave, 

And the spear spring, and good horse reel, the boy 

Was half beyond himself for ecstasy. 

So for a month he wrought among the thralls ; 
But in the weeks that follow'd, the good Queen, 
Repentant of the word she made him swear. 
And saddening in her childless castle, sent, 
Between the increscent and decrescent moon. 
Arms for her son, and loosed him from his vow. 

This, Gareth hearing from a sqnire of Lot 
With whom he used to play at tourney once, 
When both were children, and in lonely haunts 
Would scratch a ragged oval on the sand. 
And each at either dash from either end- 
Shame never made girl redder than Gareth joy. 
He langh'd ; he sprang. " Out of the smoke, at once 
I leap from Satan's foot to Peter's knee— 
These uews be mine, none other's— nay, the King's— 
Descend into the city:" wheremi he sought 
The King alone, and found, and told him all. 

"I have stagger'd thy strong Gawain in a tilt 
For pastime ; yea, he said it : joust can I. 
Make me thy knight— in secret! let my name 
Be hidd'n, and give me the first quest, I spring 
Like flame from ashes." 

Here the King's calm eye 
Fell on, and check'd, and made him flush, and bow 
Lowly, to kiss his hand, who answer'd him, 
"Son, the good mother let me know thee here, 
And sent her wish that I would yield thee thine. 
Make thee my knight? my knights are sworn to vows 
Of utter hardihood, utter gentleness, 
And, loving, ntter faithfulness in love. 
And uttermost obedience to the King." 

Then Gareth, lightly springing from his knees, 
"]\ty King, for hardihood I can i)romise thee. 
For uttermost obedience make demand 
Of whom ye gave me to, the Seneschal, 
No mellow master of the meats and drinks ! 
And as for love, God wot, I love not yet, 
But love I shall, God willing." 

And the King — 
"Make thee my knight in secret? yea, but he, 
Our noblest brother, and our truest man, 
Aud one with me iu all, he needs must know." 

"Let Lancelot know, my King, let Lancelot know. 
Thy noblest and thy truest." 

And the King— 
"But wherefore would ye men should wonder at you ? 
Nay^, rather for the sake of me, their King, 
And the deed's sake my knighthood do the deed. 
Than to be noised of." 

Merrily Gareth ask'd, 
"Have I not earn'd my cake in baking of it? 
Let be my name until I make my name ! 
My deeds will speak : it is but for a day." 
So with a kindly hand on Gareth's arm 
Smiled the great King, and half-unwillingly. 
Loving his lusty youthhood, yielded to him. 
Then, after summoning Lancelot privily, 
"I have given him the first quest: he is not proven. 
Look therefore when ho calls for this in hall, 
Thou get to horse and follow him far away. 
Cover the lions o]i thy shield, aud see 
Far as thou niayest, he be nor ta'en nor slain." 

Then that same day there past into the hall 
A damsel of high lineage, aud a brow 
May-blossom, and a cheek of apple-blossom, 



Hawk-ej-es; and lightly was her slender nose 

Tip-tilted like the petal of a flower ; 

She into hall past with her page and cried, 

"O King, for thou hast driven the foe without, 
See to the foe within ! bridge, ford, beset 
By bandits, everyone that owns a tower 
The Lord for half a league. Why sit ye there? 
Rest would I not. Sir King, an I were king, 
Till ev'n the lonest hold were all as free 
From cursed bloodshed, as thine altar-cloth 
From that blest blood it is a sin to spill." 

"Comfort thyself," said Arthur, "I nor mine 
Rest : so my knighthood keep the vows they swor^ 
The wastest moorland of our realm shall be 
Safe, damsel, as the centre of this hall. 
What is thy name ? thy need?" 

" My name ?" she said^- 
" Lynette my name ; noble ; my need, a knight 
To combat for my sister, Lyonors, 
A lady of high lineage, of great lauds. 
And comely, yea, and comelier than myself. 
She lives in Castle Perilous: a river 
Runs iu three loops about her living-place ; 
And o'er it are three passings, and three knights 
Defend the passings, brethren, and a fourth. 
And of that four the mightiest, holds her stay'd 
In her own castle, and so besieges her 
To break her will, and make her wed with him: 
And but delays his purport till thou send 
To do the battle with him, thy chief man. 
Sir Lancelot, whom he trusts to overthrow. 
Then wed, with glory ; but she will not wed 
Save whom she loveth, or a holy life. 
Now therefore have I come for Lancelot." 

Then Arthur, mindful of Sir Gareth, ask'd. 
"Damsel, ye know this Order lives to crush 
All wrougers of the realm. But say, these four, 
Who be they ? What the fashion of the men ?" 

"They be of foolish fashion, Sir King, 
The fashion of that old knight-errantry 
Who ride abroad and do but what they will ; 
Courteous or bestial from the moment, such 
As have nor law nor king ; aud three of these, 
Proud in their fantasy, call themselves the Day, 
Moruing-star, and Noon-sun, aud Evening-star, 
Being strong fools ; and never a whit more wise 
The fourth, who alway rideth arm'd in black, 
A huge man-beast of boundless savagery. 
He names himself the Night and oftener Death, 
Aud wears a helmet mounted with a skull, 
Aud bears a skeleton figured on his arms. 
To show that who may slay or scape the three 
Slain by himself shall enter endless night. 
And all these four be fools, but mighty men, 
Aud therefore am I come for Lancelot." 

Heieat Sir Gareth call'd from where he rose, 
A head with kindling eyes above the throng, 
"A boon, Sir King — this quest I" then — for he mark'd 
Kay near him groaning like a wounded bull — 
"Yea, King, thou knowest thy kitchen-knave am I, 
And mighty thro' thy meats aud drinks am I, 
And I can tojiple over a hundred such. 
Thy promise. King," and Arthur glancing at him. 
Brought down a momentary brow. " Rough, suddeu, 
Aud i)ardouable, worthy to be knight — 
Go therefore," and all hearers were amazed. 

But on the damsel's forehead shame, pride, wrath. 
Slew the Ma3'-white : she lifted either arm, 
" Fie on thee. King ! I ask'd for thy chief knight, 
And thon hast given me but a kitchen-knave." 
Then, ere a man in hall could stay her, turn'd, 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



157 



Fled down the lane of access to the King, 
Took horse, descended the slope street, and past 
The weird white gate, and paused without, beside 
The field of tourney, murmuring "kitchen-knave." 

Now two great entries open'd from the hall, 
At one end one, that gave upon a range 
Of level pavement where the King would pace 
At sunrise, gazing over plain and wood ; 
And down from this a lordly stairway sloped 
Till lost iu blowing trees and tops of towers; 
And out by this main doorway past the King. 
But one was counter to the hearth, and rose 
High that the highest-crested helm could ride 
Thcrethro' nor graze: and by this entry fled 
The damsel in her wrath, and on to this 
Sir Gareth strode, and saw without the door 
King Arthur's gift, the worth of half a town, 
A wnrhorsc of the best, and near it stood 
The two that out of north had follow'd him: 
This bare a maiden shield, a casque ; that held 
The horse, the spear ; whereat Sir Gareth loosed 
A cloak that dropt from collar-bone to heel, 
A cloth of roughest web, and cast it down. 
And from it like a fuel-smother'd fire, 
That lookt half dead, brake bright, and flash'd as 

those 
Dull-coated things, that making slide apart 
Their dusk wing-cases, all beneath there burns 
A jewcl'd harness, ere they pass and flj'. 
So Gareth ere he parted flash'd iu arms. 
Then, as he donu'd the helm, and took the shield 
And mounted horse and graspt a si)ear, of grain 
Storm-strenglhen'd on a windy site, and tipt 
With trenchant steel, around him slowly prest 
The people, while from out of kitchen came 
The thralls in throng, and seeing who had work'd 
Lustier than any, and whom they could but love. 
Mounted iu arms, threw up their caps and cried, 
"God bless the King, and all his fellowship!" 
And on thro' lanes of shouting Gareth rode 
Down the slope street, and past without the gate. 

So Gareth past with joy ; but as the cur 
Pluckt from the cur he lights with, ere his cause 
Be cool'd by fighting, follows, being named. 
His owner, but remembers all, and growls 
Remembering, so Sir Kay beside the door 
Mutter'd in scorn of Gareth whom he used 
To harry and to hustle. 

"Bound upon a quest 
With horse and arms— the King hath past his time— 
My scullion knave I Thralls, to your work again, 
For an your fire be low ye kindle mine ! 
Will there be dawn in West and eve in East ? 
Begone !— my knave! — belike and like enow 
Some old head-blow not heeded iu his youth 
So shook his wits they wander in his prime — 
Crazed I How the villain lifted up his voice, 
Nor shamed to bawl himself a kitchen-knave. 
Tut: he was tame and meek enow with me. 
Till peacock'd up with Lancelot's noticing. 
Well — I will after my loud knave, and learn 
Whether he know me for his master yet. 
Out of the smoke he came, and so my lance 
Hold, by God's grace, he shall into the mire — 
Thence, if the King awaken from his craze, 
Into the smoke again." 

But Lancelot said, 
"Kay, wherefore wilt thou go against the King, 
Jor that did never he whereon ye rail, 
But ever meekly served the King in thee? 
Abide : take counsel ; for this lad is great 
And lusty, and knowing both of lance and sword." 
"Tut, tell me not," said Kay, "ye are overfine 
To mar stout knaves with foolish courtesies." 



Then mounted, on thro' silent faces rode 
Down the slope city, and out beyond the gate. 

But by the field of tourney lingering yet 
Mutter'd the damsel, "Wherefore did the King 
Scorn me ? for, were Sir Lancelot lackt, at least 
He might have yielded to me one of those 
Who tilt for lady's love and glory here, 
Rather than— O sweet heaven I O fie upon him ! — 
His kitchen-knave." 

To whom Sir Gareth drew 
(And there were none but few goodlier than he) 
Shining in arms, "Damsel, the quest is mine. 
Lead, and I follow." She thereat, as one 
That smells a foul-flesh'd agaric in the holt. 
And deems it carrion of some woodland thing. 
Or shrew, or weasel, nipt her slender nose 
With petulant thumb and finger, shrilling, " Hence i 
Avoid, thou smellest all of kitchen-grease. 
And look who conies behind," for there was Kay. 
" Knowest thou not me ? thy master ? I am Kay 
We lack thee by the hearth." 

And Gareth to him, 
"Master no more! too well I know thee, ay— 
The most ungentle knight in Arthur's hall." 
"Have at thee, then," said Kay: they shock'd, and 

Kay 
Fell shoulder-slipt, and Gareth cried again, 
" Lead, and I follow," and fast away she fled. 

But after sod and shingle ceased to fly 
Behind her, and the heart of her good horse 
Was nigh to burst with violence of the beat. 
Perforce she stay'd, and overtaken spoke. 

" What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship ? 
Deem'st thou that I accept thee aught the more 
Or love thee better, that by some device 
Full cowardlj', or by mere nnhappiness, 
Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master — thou!— 
Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon !— to me 
Thou smellest all of kitchen as before." 

"Damsel," Sir Gareth answer'd gently, "say 
W'hate'er ye will, but whatsoe'er ye say, 
I leave not till I finish this fair quest. 
Or die therefore." 

"Ay, wilt thou finish it? 
Sweet Lord, how like a noble knight he talks! 
The listening rogue hath caught the manner of it. 
But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave, 
And then by such a one that thou for all 
The kitchen brewis that was ever supt 
Shalt not once dare to look him iu the face." 

" I shall assay," said Gareth with a smile 
That madden'd her, and away she flash'd again 
Down the long .avenues of a boundless wood. 
And Gareth following was again beknaved. 

"Sir Kitchen-knave, I have miss'd the only way 
WTiere Arthur's men are set along the wood ; 
The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves: 
If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet. 
Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine ? 
Fight, an thou canst: I have miss'd the only way." 

So till the dusk that follow'd evensong 
Rode on the two, reviler and reviled ; 
Then, after one long slope was mounted, saw. 
Bowl-shaped, thro' tops of many thousand pines 
A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink 
To westward — in the deeps whereof a mere, 
Round as the red eye of an eagle-owl. 
Under the half-dead sunset glared ; and shouts 



158 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



%Y- 



Ascended, and ihere brake a serviugmau 
Flying from out of the black woDd, and crying, 
" They have bound my lord to cast him in the mere." 

Then Gareth, "Bound am I to right the ^yro^g'd, 
But straitlier bound am I to bide with thee." 
And when the dams^el spake contemi)tuously, 
"Lead, and I follow," Gareth cried again, 
" Follow, I lead !" so down among the pines 
He plunged; and there, blackshadow'd nigh the mere, 
And mid-thigh-deep in bulrushes and reed. 
Saw six tall men haling a seventh along, 
A stone about his neck to drown him in it. 
Three with good blows he quieted, but three 
Fled thro' the jiines ; and Gareth loosed the stone 
From oft" his neck, then in the mere beside 
Tumbled it ; oilily bubbled up the mere. 
Last, Gareth loosed his bonds and on free feet 
Set him, a stalwart Baron, Arthur's friend. 

"Well that }-e came, or else these caitifl' rogues 
Had wreak'd theniselves on me ; good cause is theirs 
To hate me, for my wont hath ever been 
To catch my thief, and then like vermin here 
Drown him, and with a stone about his neck ; 
And under this wan water many of them 
Lie rotting, but at night let go the stone. 
And rise, and flickering in a grimly light. 
Dance on the mere. Good now, ye have saved a life 
Worth somewhat as the cleau.ser of this wood. 
And fain would I reward thee worshipt'iilly. 
What guerdon will ye ?" 

Gareth sharply spake, 
"None I f.>r the deed's sake have I done the deed. 
In uttermost obedience to the King. 
But wilt thou yield this damsel harborage?" 

Whereat the Baron saying, "I well believe 
You be of Arthur's Table," a light laugh 
Broke from Lynetle, "Ay, truly of a truth. 
And in a sort, being Arthur's kitchen-knave !— 
But deem not I accept thee aught the more, 
Scnllion, for running sharply with thy spit 
Down on a rout of craven foresters. 
A thresher with his flail had scatter'd them. 
Nay — for thou smellest of the kitchen still. 
But an this lord will yield us harborage, 
Well." 

So she spake. A league beyond the wood, 
All in a full-fair manor and a rich. 
His towers where that day a feast had been 
Held in high hall, and many a viand left. 
And many a costly cate, received the three. 
And there they placed a peacock in his pride 
Before the damsel, and the Baron set 
Gareth beside her, but at once she rose. 

"Meseems, that here is much discourtesy, 
Setting this knave, Lord Baron, at my side. 
Hear me— this morn I stood in Arthur's hall, 
And pray'd the King would grant me Lancelot 
To fight the biotherhood of Day and Night— 
The last a monster unsubduable 
Of any save of him for whom I call'd— 
Suddenly bawls this frontless kitchen-knave, 
'The quest is mine; thy kitchen-knave am I, 
And mighty ihro' thy meats and drinks am L' 
Then Arthur all at once gone mad replies, 
'Go therefore,' and so gives the quest to him — 
Him— here— a villain fitter to stick swine 
Thau ride abroad redressing women's wrong. 
Or sit beside a noble gentlewoman." 

Then half-ashamed and i)art-amazed, the lord 
Now look'd at one and now at other, left 
The damsel by the jieacock in his pride, 



And, seating Gareth at another board. 
Sat down beside him, ate and then began : 

"Friend, whether thou be kitchen-knave, or not, 
Or whether it be the maiden's fantasy, 
And whether she be mad, or else the King, 
Or both or neither, or thyself be mud, 
I ask not: but thou strikest a strong stroke, 
For strong thou art and goodly therewithal, 
And saver of my life ; and therefore now. 
For here be mighty men to joust with, weigh 
Whether thou wilt )iot with thy damsel back 
To crave again Sir Lancelot of the King. 
Thy pardon ; I but speak for thine avail, 
The saver of my life." 

And Gareth said, 
"Full pardon, but I follow up the quest. 
Despite of Day and Night, and Death and Hell." 

So when, next morn, the lord whose life he savefl 
Had, some brief space, convey'd them on their way 
And left them with God-speed, Sir Gareth spake, 
"Lead, and I follow." Haughtily she replied, 

" I fly no more : I allow thee for an hour. 
Lion and stoat have isled together, knave. 
In time of flood. Nay, furthermore, methiuks 
Some ruth is mine for thee. Back wilt thou, fool? 
For hard by here is one will overthrow 
And slay thee: then will I to conn again. 
And shame the King for only yielding me 
My champion from the ashes of his hearth." 

To whom Sir Gareth answer'd courteously, 
"Say thou thy say, and I will do my deed. 
Allow me for mine hour, and thou wilt find 
My fortunes all as fair as hers, who lay 
Among the ashes and wedded the King's son." 

Then to the shore of one of those long loops 
Wherethro" the serpent river coil'd, they came. 
Rough -thicketed were the banks ar»d steep; th6 

stream 
Full, narrow; this a bridge of single arc 
Took at a leap ; and on the further side 
Arose a silk pavilion, gay with gold 
In streaks and rays, and all Lent-lily in hue. 
Save that the dome was purple, and above. 
Crimson, a slender banneret flnttering. 
And therebcfore the lawless warrior paced 
Unarm'd, and calling, "Damsel, is this he. 
The chamijion thou hast brought from Arthur's 

hall. 
For whom we let thee pass?" "Nay, nay," she 

said, 
"Sir Morning-star. The King in utter scorn 
Of thee aud thy much folly hath sent thee here 
His kitchen-knave: and look thou to thyself: 
See that he fall not »n thee suddenly. 
And slay thee unarm'd : he is not knight but knave.'' 

Then at his call, "O daughters of the Dawn, 
And servants of the Morning-star, approach, 
Arm me," from out the silken curtain-folds 
Bare-footed and bare-headed three fair girls 
In gilt and rosy raiment came : their feet 
In dewy grasses glisteu'd ; and the hair 
All over glanced with dcwdrop or with gem 
Like sparkles in the stone Avantm'iuc. 
These arm'd him in bhie arms, and gave a shield 
Blue also, and thereon the morning-star. 
Aud Gareth silent gazed upon the knight. 
Who stood a nnmient, ere his horse was brought. 
Glorying; and in the stream beneath him, shone, 
Immingled with Heaven's azure waveringly, 
The gay pavilion and the naked feet. 
His arms, the rosy raiment, and the star. 



GARETIi AND LYNETTE. 



159 



Then she that, watch'd him, "Wherefore stare ye so? 
Thon ebakest in tliy fear: there yet it< time: 
Flee down the valley before he get to horse. 
Who will cry shame ? Thou art uot knight but 
knave." 

Said Gareth, " Damsel, whether knave or kuight. 
Far liefer had I tight a score of times 
Thau hear thee so missay me and revile. 
Fair words were best for him who lights for thee; 
But truly fonl are better, for they send 
That strength of anger thro' mine arms, I know 
That I shall overthrow him." 

And he that bore 
The star, being mounted, cried from o'er the bridge, 
"A kitchen-knave, and sent in scorn of me ! 
Such light not I, but answer scorn with scorn. 
For this were shame to do him further wrong 
Thau set him on his feet, aud take his horse 
And arms, and so return him to the King. 
Come, therefore, leave thy lady lightly, kuave. 
Avoid : for it beseemeth uot a knave 
To ride with such a lady." 

'•Dog, thou liest. 
I spring from loftier lineage than thine own." 
He spake; and all at fiery speed the two 
Shock'd on the central bridge, and either spear 
Bent but not brake, aud either knight at ouce, 
Hurl'd as a stone from out of a catapult 
Beyond his horse's crupper and the bridge, 
Fell, as if dead ; but quickly rose and drew. 
And Gareth lash'd so fiercely with his brand 
He drave his enemy backward down the bridge. 
The damsel crying, "Well-stricken, kitchen-knave!" 
Till Gareth's shield was cloven ; but one stroke 
Laid him that clove it groveling ou the ground. 

Then cried the fall'n, "Take uot my life: I yield." 
Aud Gareth, "So this damsel ask it of me, 
Good — I accord it easily as a grace." 
She reddening, "Insolent scullion! I of thee? 
I bound to thee for any favor ask'd !" 
"Then shall he die." And Gareth there unlaced 
His helmet as to slay him, but she shriek'd, 
"Be not so hardy, scullion, as to slay 
One nobler than thyself." "Damsel, thy charge 
Is an abounding pleasure to me. Knight, 
Thy life is thine at her command. Arise 
Aud quickly pass to Arthur's hall, and say 
His kitchen-knave hath sent thee. See thou crave 
His pardon for thy breaking of his laws. 
Myself, when I return, will plead for thee. 
Thy shield is mine— farewell ; and, damsel, thou, 
Lead, and I follow." 

And fast away she fled. 
Then when he came upon her, spake, "Methought, 
Knave, when I watch'd thee striking on the bridge. 
The savor of thy kitchen came upon me 
A little faintlier: but the wind hath changed: 
I scent it twenty-fold." And then she sang, 
"'O inoruing-star' (not that tall felon there 
Whom thon by sorcery or unhappiness 
Or some device, hast foully overthrown), 
'O morning-star that smilest in the blue, 
O star, my morning dream hath proven true. 
Smile sweetly, thou ! iny love hath smiled ou me.' 

" But thon begone, take counsel, and away. 
For hard by here is one that guards a ford — 
The second brother in their fool's parable — 
Will pay thee all thy wages, and to boot. 
Care not for shame : thou art not knight but knave." 

To whom Sir Gareth answer'd, laughingly, 
•' Parables ? Hear a parable of the knave. 
1] 



When I was kitcheu-kuave among the rest 
Pierce was the hearth, and (uie of my co-mates 
Own'd a rough dog, to whom he cast his coat, 
'Guard it,' and there was none to meddle with it. 
Aud such a coat art thou, and ihee the King 
Gave me to guard, and such a dog am I, 
To worry, and not to flee— aud— knight or knave— 
The knave that doth thee service as full kuight 
Is all as good, meseems, as any kuight 
Toward thy sister's freeing." 

"Ay, Sir Knave I 
Ay, knave, because thou strikest as a knight, 
Being but knave, I hate thee all the more." 

"Fair damsel, you should worship me the more, 
That, being but knave, I throw thine enemies." 

"Ay, ay," she said, "but thou shall meet thv 
match." 

So when they touch'd the second river-loop, 
Huge on a huge red horse, and all in mail 
Bnrnish'd to blinding, shone the Noonday Sun 
Beyond a raging shallow. As if the flower, 
That blows a globe of after arrowlets. 
Ten thousand -fold had grown, flash'd the fierce 

shield, 
All sun ; aud Gareth's eyes had flying blots 
Before them when he lurn'd from watching him. 
He from beyond the roaring shallow roar'd, 
"What doest thou, brother, in my marches here?" 
And she athwart the shallow shrill'd again, 
" Here is a kitchen-knave from Arthur's hall 
Hath overthrown thy brother, and hath his arms." 
" Ugh !" cried the Sun, and vizoring up a red 
And cipher face of rounded foolishness, 
Push'd horse across the foainings of the ford. 
Whom Gareth met midstream : no room was there 
For lance or tourney-skill : four strokes they sfiuck 
With sword, and these were mighty; the new knight 
Had fear he might be shamed ; but as the Sun 
Heaved up a ponderous arm to strike the fifth. 
The hoof of his horse slipt in the stream, the stream 
Descended, aud the Sun was wash'd away. 

Then Gareth laid his lance athwart the ford ; 
So drew him home; but he that fought uo more. 
As being all bonebntter'd ou the rock, 
Yielded ; and Gareth sent him to the King. 
"Myself when I return will plead for thee. 
Lead, and I follow." Quietly she led. 
"Hath not the good wind, damsel, changed again?" 
"Nay, not a point: nor art thou victor here. 
There lies a ridge of slate across the ford ; 
His horse thereon stumbled— ay, for I saw it. 

"'O sun' (not this strong fool whom thou. Sir 
Knave, 
Hast overthrown thro' mere unhappiness), 
' O sun, that wakenest all to bliss or pain, 
O moon, that layest all to sleep again. 
Shine sweetly : twice my love hath smiled on me.' 

" What knowest thou of lovesong or of love ? 
Nay, nay, God wot, so thou wert nobly born. 
Thou hast a pleasant presence. Yea, perchance,— 

" 'O dewy flowers that open to the sun, 
O dewy flowers that close when day is done, 
Blow sweetly : twice my love hath smiled on me.' 

"What knowest thon of flowers, except, belike, 
To garnish meats with ? hath not our good King 
Who lent me thee, the flower of kitchendom, 
A fooiish love for flowers? What stick ye round 
The pasty ? wherewithal deck the boar's head ? 
Flowers? nay, the boar hath rosemaries and bay. 



IGO 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



" 'O birds, that warble to the moruiug sky, 
O birds that warble as the day goes by, 
Sing sweetly : twice my love hath smiled ou me.' 

" What knowest thou of birds, lurk, mavis, merle. 
Linnet? what dream ye when they utter forth 
May-music growing with the growing light, 
Their sweet sun-worship ? these be for the suare 
(So runs thy fancy), these be for the spit. 
Larding and basting. See thou have not now 
Larded thy hist, except thou turn and fly. 
There stands the third fool of their allegory." 

For there beyond a bridge of treble bow, 
All in a rose-red from the west, and all 
Naked it seem'd, and glowing in the broad 
Deep-dimpled current underneath, the Iviiight, 
That named himself the Star of Evening, stood. 

And Gareth, "Wherefore waits the mndmau there 
Naked in open dayshine?" "Nay," she cried, 
" Not naked, only wrapt iu harden'd skins 
That fit him like his own ; and so ye cleave 
His armor off him, these will turn the blade." 

Then the third brother shouted o'er the bridge, 
"O brother-star, why shine ye here so low? 
Thy ward is higher up: but have ye slain 
The damsel's champion ?" and the damsel cried, 

"No star of thine, but shot from Arthur's heaven 
With all disaster unto thine and thee I 
For both thy younger brethren have gone down 
Before this youth ; and so wilt thou, Sir Star: 
Art thou not old ?" 

"Old, damsel, old and hard — 
Old, with the might and breath of twenty boys." 
Said Gareth, " Old, and over-bold in brag ! 
But that same strength which threw the Morning 

Star 
Can throw the Evening." 

Then that other blew 
A hard and deadly note upon the horn. 
"Approach and arm me !" With slow steps from out 
An old storm-beaten, russet, many-stain'd 
Pavilion, forth a grizzled damsel came. 
And arm'd him in old arms, and brought a Jielm 
With but a drying evergreen for crest, 
Atid gave a shield whereon the Star of Even 
Half-tarnish'd and half-bright, his emblem, shone. 
But when it glitter'd o'er the saddle-bow, 
They madly hurl'd together on the biidge ; 
And Gareth overthrew him, lighted, drew. 
There met him drawn, and overthrew him again, 
But up like tire he started : and as oft 
As Gareth brought him grovelling on his knees, 
So many a time he vaulted up again ; 
Till Gareth panted hard, and his great heart. 
Foredooming all his trouble was in vain, 
Lahor'd within him, for he seem'd as cue 
That all in later, sadder age begins 
To war against ill uses of a life, 
But these from all his life arise, and cry, 
"Thou hast made us lords, and caust not put us 

down !" 
He half desjjairs ; so Gareth seem'd to strike 
Vainly, the damsel clamoring all the while, 
"Well done, knave -knight, well -stricken, O good 

knight-knave — 
O knave, as noble as any of all the knights — 
Shame me not, shame me not. I have prophesied — 
Strike, thou art worthy of the Table Kound— 
His arms are old, he trusts the harden'd skin- 
Strike— strike — the wind will never change again." 
And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote, 
And hcw'd great pieces of his armor off him, 



But lash'd in vain against the harden'd skin, 
And could not wholly bring him under, more 
Than loud Southwesterus, rolling ridge ou ridge, 
The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs 
For ever ; till at length Sir Gareth's brand 
Clash'd his, and brake it utterly to the hilt. 
" I have thee now ;" but forth that other sprang. 
And, all iinkiiightlike, writhed his wiry arms 
Around him, till he felt, despite his mail. 
Strangled, but straining ev'n his uttermost 
Cast, and so hurl'd him headlong o'er the bridge 
Down to the river, sink or swim, and cried, 
" Lead, and I follow." 

But the damsel said, 
" I lead no longer ; ride them at my side ; 
Thou art the kiugliest of all kitchen-knaves. 

"'O trefoil, sparkling on the rainy plain, 
O rainbow with three cohu'S after rain, 
Shine sweetly : thrice my love hath smiled on me." 

"Sir, — and, good faith, 1 fain had added — Knight, 
But that I heard thee call thyself a knave,— 
Shamed am I that I so rebuked, reviled, 
Missaid thee ; noble I am ; and thought the King 
Scoru'd me and mine ; and now thy pardon, friend, 
For thou hast ever answer'd courteously. 
And wholly bold thou art, and meek withal 
As any of Arthur's best, but, being knave. 
Hast mazed my wit : I marvel what thou art." 

"Damsel," he said, "you be not all to blame, 
Saving that you mistrusted our good King 
Would handle scorn, or yield you, asking, one 
Not tit to cope your quest. You said your say; 
Mine answer was my deed. Good sooth ! I hold 
He scarce is knight, yea, but half-man, nor meet 
To fight for gentle damsel, he who lets 
His heart be stirr'd with any foolish heat 
At any gentle damsel's waywardness. 
Shamed? care not! thy foul sayings fought for me' 
And seeing now thy words are fair, methinks 
There rides no knight, not Lancelot, his great self, 
Hath force to quell me." 

Nigh upon that hour 
When the lone hern forgets his melancholy. 
Lets down his other leg, and stretching, dreams 
Of goodly supper in the distant pool. 
Then turn'd the noble damsel smiling at him. 
And told him of a cavern hard at hand. 
Where bread and baken meats and good red wine 
or Southland, which the Lady Lyonors 
Had sent her coming champion, waited him. 

Anon they past a narrow comb wherein 
Were slabs of rock with figures, knights on horse 
Sculptured, and deckt in slowly-waning hues. 
" Sir Knave, my knight, a hermit once was here, 
Whose holy hand hath fashion'd on the rock 
The war of Time against the soul of man. 
And yon four fools have suck'd their allegory 
From these damp walls, and taken but the form. 
Know ye not these?" and Gareih lookt and read — 
In letters like to those the vexillary 
Hath left ciag-carven o'er the streaming Gelt — 
" Pnospnoiins," then "Mekidiks"— " Hespeuus" — 
" No.x " — "Mot{8," beneath five figures, armed men, 
Slab after slab, their faces forward all. 
And running down the Soul, a Shape that fled 
With broken wings, torn raiment and loose hair. 
For help and shelter to the hermit's cave. 
" Follow the faces, and we find It. Look, 
Who comes behind ?" 

For one — delay'd at first 
Thro' helping back the dislocated Kay 



GARETH AND LYNETTE. 



IGl 



To Camelot, then by what thereafter chanced, 
The damsel's headlong error thro' the wood — 
Sir Lancelot, having swum the river-loops — 
His blue shield-lious cover'd — softly drew 
Behind the twain, and when he saw the star 
Gleam, on Sir Gareth's turning to him, cried, 
" Stay, felon knight, I avenge me for my friend." 
And Gareth crying prick'd against the cry; 
But when they closed — in a moment— at one touch 
Of that skill'd spear, the wonder of the world — 
Wei^t sliding down so easily, and fell, 
That when he found the grass within his hands, 
He laugh'd ; the laughter jarr'd upon Lynette : 
Harshly she ask'd him, "Shamed and overthrown, 
And tumbled back into the kitchen-knave. 
Why laugh ye ? that ye blew your boast in vain ?" 
"Nay, noble damsel, but that I, the son 
Of old King Lot and good Queen Bellicent, 
And victor of the bridges and the ford, 
And knight of Arthur, here lie thrown by whom 
I know not, all thro' mere unhappiness— 
Device and sorcery and unhappiness — 
Out, sword ; we are thrown !" And Lancelot au- 
swer'd, " Prince, 

Gareth— thro' the mere unhappiness 

Of one who came to help thee, not to harm, 
Lancelot, and all as glad to find thee whole. 
As ou the day when Arthur knighted him." 

Then Gareth, " Thou— Lancelot '.—thine the hand 
That threw me ? An some chance to mar the boast 
Thy brethren of thee make— which could not chance- 
Had sent thee down before a lesser spear, 
Shamed had I been, and sad— O Lancelot— thou !" 

Whereat the maiden, petulant, " Lancelot, 
Why came ye not, when call'd ? and wherefore now 
Come ye, not call'd? I gloried in my knave. 
Who being still rebuked, would answer still 
Courteous as any knight— but now, if knight, 
The marvel dies, and leaves me fool'd and trick'd. 
And only wondering wherefore play'd upon ; 
And doubtful whether I and mine be scorn'd. 
Where should be truth if not in Arthur's hall, 
In Arthur's presence? Knight, knave, prince and 
fool, 

1 hate thee and for ever." 

And Lancelot said, 
"Blessed be thou, Sir Gareth I knight art thou 
To the King's best wish. O damsel, be you wise 
To call him shamed, who is but overthrown ? 
Thrown have I been, nor once, but many a time. 
Victor from vanquish'd issues at the last. 
And overthrower from being overthrown. 
With sword we have not striven ; and thy good horse 
And thou are weary ; yet not less I felt 
Thy manhood thro' that wearied lance of thine. 
Well hast thou done ; for all the stream is freed. 
And thou hast wreak'd his justice on his foes, 
And when reviled, hast answer'd graciously. 
And makest merry when overthrown. Prince, Knight, 
Hail, Knight and Prince, and of our Table Round !" 

And then when turning to Lynette he told 
The tale of Gareth, petulantly she said, 
"Ay well— ay well— for worse than being fool'd 
Of others, is to fool one's self. A cave, 
Sir Lancelot, is hard by, with meats and drinks 
And forage for the horse, and flint for fire. 
But all about it flies a honeysuckle. 
Seek, till we find." And when they sought and found. 
Sir Gareth drank and ate, and all his life 
Past into sleep ; on whom the maiden gazed. 
"Sound sleep be thine! sound cause to sleep hast 

thou. 
Wake lusty! Seem I not as tender to him 
As any mother ? Ay, but such a one 



As all day long hath rated at her child. 
And vext his day, but blesses him asleep — 
Good lord, how sweetly smells the honeysuckle 
In the hush'd night, as if the world were one 
Of utter peace, and love, and gentleness ! 
O Lancelot, Lancelot"- and she clapt her hands — 
" Pull merry am 1 to find my goodly knave 
Is knight and noble. See now, sworn have I, 
Else yon black felon had not let me pass. 
To bring thee back to do the battle with him. 
Thus an thou gocst, he will fight thee first ; 
Who doubts thee victor ? so will my knight-knave 
Miss the full flower of this accoraplishmeut." 

Said Lancelot, " Peradventure he yon name 
May know my shield. Let Gareth, an he will, 
Change his for mine, and take my charger, fresh, 
Not to be spurr'd, loving the battle as well 
As he that rides him." " Lancelot-like," she said, 
"Courteous in this. Lord Lancelot, as in all." 

And Gareth, wakening, fiercely clutch'd the shield; 
"Ramp, ye lance - splintering lions, on whom all 

spears 
Are rotteu sticks ! ye seem agape to roar ! 
Yea, ramp and roar at leaving of your lord ! — 
Care not, good beasts, so well I care for you. 

noble Lancelot, from my hold on these 
Streams virtue — fire — thro' one that will not shame 
Even the shadow of Lancelot under shield. 
Hence : let us go." 

Silent the silent field 
They traversed. Arthur's harp tho' summer-waa, 
In counter motion to the clouds, allured 
The glance of Gareth dreaming on his liege. 
A star shot: "Lo," said Gareth, "the foe falls!" 
An owl whoopt : " Hark the victor pealing there !" 
Suddenly she that rode upon his left 
Clung to the shield that Lancelot lent him, crying, 
"Yield, yield him this again: 'tis he must fight: 

1 curse the tongue that all thro' yesterday 
Reviled thee, and hath wrought on Lancelot now 
To lend thee horse and shield: wonders ye have 

done ; 
Miracles ye cannot : here is glory enow 
la having flung the three : I see thee maim'd. 
Mangled: I swear thou canst not fling the fourth." 

"And wherefore, damsel? tell me all ye know. 
You cannot scare me ; nor rough face, or voice, 
Brute bulk of limb, or boundless savagery 
Appal me from the quest." 

" Nay, Prince," she cried, 
"God wot, I never look'd upon the face, 
Seeing he never rides abroad by day; 
But watch'd him have I like a phantom pass 
Chilling the night : nor have I heard the voice. 
Always he made his mouthpiece of a page 
Who came and went, and still reported him 
As closing in himself the strength of ten. 
And when his anger tare him, massacring 
Man, woman, lad and girl— yea, the soft babe ! 
Some hold that he hath swallow'd infant flesh, 
Monster ! O Prince, I went for Lancelot first. 
The quest is Lancelot's: give him back the shield." 

Said Gareth, laughing, "An he fight for this. 
Belike he wins it as the better man: 
Thus— and not else I" 

But Lancelot on him urged 
All the devisings of their chivalry 
When one might meet a mightier than himself; 
How best to manage horse, lance, sword and shield, 
And so fill up the gap where force might fail 
With skill and fineness. Instant were his words. 



1G2 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



Then Gareth, "Here be rules. I know but one — 
To dash agaiust mine enemy and to wiu. 
Yet have I watch'd thee victor in the joust, 
Aud seen thy way." " Heaven help thee I" sigh'd 
Lyuette. 

Then for a space, and under cloud that grave 
To thunder-gloom palling all stars, they rode 
In converse till she made her palfrey halt. 
Lifted an arm, and softly whisper'd, "There." 
And all the three were silent seeing, pitch'd 
Beside the Castle Perilous on fl:it tield, 
A luige pavilion like a mountain peak 
Sunder the glooming crimson on the marge. 
Black, with black banner, and a long black horn 
Beside it hanging ; which Sir Gareth graspt. 
And so, before the two could hinder him, 
Sent all his heart and breath thro' all the horn. 
Echo'd the walls ; a light twinkled ; anon 
Came lights and lights, and once again he blew; 
Whereon were hollow tramplings up and down, 
And muffled voices heard, and shadows past ; 
Till high above him, circled with her maids, 
The Lady Lyonors at a vi'indow stood, 
Beautiful among lights, aud waving to him 
■White hands, and courtesy ; but when the Prince 
Three times had blown— after long hush — at last — 
The huge pavilion slowly yielded up. 
Thro' those black foldings, that which housed therein. 
High on a nightblack horse, in nightblack arms. 
With white breast-bone, and barren ribs of Death, 
And crown'd with fleshless laughter — some ten 

steps — 
In the half-light — thro' the dim dawn — advanced 
The monster, and then paused, aud spake no word. 

But Gareth spake and all indignantly, 
"Fool, for thou hast, men say, the strength of ten, 
Canst thou not trust the limbs thy God hath given, 
But must, to make the terror of thee more, 
Trick thyself out in ghastly imageries 
Of that which Life hath done with, and the clod, 
Less dull than thou, will hide with mantling flowers 
As if for pity ?" But he spake no word ; 
Which set the horror higher : a maiden swoon'd ; 
The Lady Lyonors wrung her hands aud wept. 
As doom'd to be the bride of Night and Death ; 
Sir Gareth's head prickled beneath his helm ; 
And ev'n Sir Lancelot thro' his warm blood felt 
Ice strike, aud all that mark'd him were aghast. 

At once Sir Lancelot's charger fiercely neigh'd. 
And Death's dark war-horse bounded forward with 

him. 
Then those that did not blink the terror, saw 
That Death was cast to ground, and slowly rose. 
But with one stroke Sir Gareth split the skull. 
Half fell to right and half to left and lay. 
Then with a stronger buffet he clove the helm 
As throughly as the skull ; and out from this 
Issued the bright face of a blooming boy 
Fresb as a flower new-born, and crying, " Knight, 
Slay n-e not: my three brethren bade me do it, 
To make a horror all about the house. 
And stay the world from Lady Lyonors. 
They never dream'd the passes would be past." 
Answer'd Sir Gareth graciinisly to one 
Not many a moon his younger, " My fair child. 
What madness made thee challenge the chief knight 
Of Arthur's hall?" "Pair Sir, they bade me do it. 
They hate the King, and Lancelot, the King's friend. 
They hoped to slay him somewheie on the stream, 
They never dream'd the pas.ses could be past." 

Then sprang the happier day from underground ; 
And Lady Lyonors and her house, with dance 
And revel and song, made merry over Death, 
As being after all their foolish fears 



And horrors only proven a blooming boy. 

So large mirth lived and Gareth won the quest. 

And he that told the tale in older times 
Says that Sir Gareth wedded Lyonors, 
But he that told it later says Lyuette. 



GERAINT AND ENID. 

I. 

The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court, 

A tributary prince of Devon, one 

Of that great Order of the Table Round, 

Had married Enid, Yniol's only child, 

And loved her as he loved the light of heaven. 

And as the light of heaven varies, now 

At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night 

With moon aud trembling stars, so loved Geraint 

To make her beauty vary day by day. 

In crimsons aud in purples and in gems. 

And Enid, but to please her husband's eye. 

Who first had found and loved her in a state 

Of broken fortuues, daily fronted him 

In some fresh splendor; and the Queen herself, 

Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done. 

Loved her, and often with her own white hands 

Array'd aud deck'd her, as the loveliest, 

Next after her owu self, in all the court. 

And Euid loved the Queen, aud with true hesut 

Adored her, as the stateliest and the best 

And loveliest of all women upon earth. 

And seeing them so tender and so close. 

Long in their common love rejoiced Geraint. 

But when a rumor rose about the Qneen, 

Touching her guilty love for Lancelot, 

Tho' yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard 

The world's loud whisper breaking into storm, 

Not less Geraint believed it ; and there fell 

A horror on him, lest his gentle wife, 

Thro' that great tenderness for Guinevere, 

Had suffer'd, or should suflTer any taint 

In nature: wherefore going to the King, 

He made this pretext, that his princedom lay 

Close on the borders of a territory. 

Wherein were bandit earls, and caitiff" knights, 

Assassins, and all flyers from the hand 

Of Justice, and whatever loathes a law : 

Aud therefore, till the King himself should please 

To cleanse this common sewer of all his reahu. 

He craved a fair permission to depart. 

And there defend his marches ; and the King 

Mused for a little on his plea, but, last, 

Allowing it, the Prince and Enid rode. 

And fifty knights rode with them, to the shores 

Of Severn, aud they past to their own laud ; 

Where, thinking, that if ever yet was wife 

True to her lord, mine shall be so to me, 

He compass'd her with sweet observances 

And worship, never leaving her, aud grew 

Forgetful of his promise to the King, 

Forgetful of the falcon and the hunt, 

Forgetful of the tilt and tournament, 

Forgetful of his glory and his name, 

Forgetful of his princedom and its cares. 

And this forgetfuluess was hateful to her. 

And by aud by the people, when they met 

lu twos and threes, or fuller companies. 

Began to scoff" and jeer and babble of him 

As of a prince whose manhood was all gone, 

And molten down iu mere uxoriousness. 

And this she gather'd from the people's eyes: 

This too the women who attired her head. 

To please her, dwelling on his boundless love, 

Told Enid, and they sadden'd her the more: 

And day by day she thought to tell Geraint, 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



163 



But could not out of bashful delicacy; 

While he that watch'd hei- sadden, was the more 

Suspicious that her nature had a taint. 

At last, it chanced that on a summer morn 
(They sleeping each by either) the new sun 
Beat tiiro' the blindless casement of the room. 
And heated the stroug warrior in his dreams ; 
Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside, 
And bared the knotted column of his throat. 
The massive square of his heroic breast. 
And arms on which the standing muscle eloped, 
As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone. 
Running too vehemently to break upon it. 
And Enid woke and sat beside the couch. 
Admiring him, and thought within herself, 
Was ever man so grandly made as he ? 
Then, like a shadow, past the people's talk 
And accusation of uxoriousness 
Across her mind, and bowing over him, 
Low to her own heart piteously she said : 

" O noble breast and all-puissant arms, 
Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men 
Reproach you, saying all your force is gone ? 
I am the cause, because I dare not speak 
And tell him what I think and what they say. 
And yet I hate that he should linger here ; 
I cannot love my lord and not his name. 
Far liefer had I gird his harness on him. 
And ride with him to battle and stand by. 
And watch his mightful hand striking great blows 
At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world. 
Far better were I laid in the dark earth, 
Not hearing any more his noble voice, 
Not to be folded more in these dear arms. 
And darkeu'd from the high light in his eyes, 
Thau that my lord thro' me should suffer shame. 
Am I so bold, and could I so stand by, 
And see my dear lord wounded in the strife. 
Or maybe pierced to death before mine eyes. 
And yet not dare to tell him what I think, 
And how men slur him, saying all his force 
Is melted into mere effeminacy? 

me, I fear that 1 am no true wife." 

Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke. 
And the strong passion in her made her weep 
True tears upon his broad and naked breast. 
And these awoke him, and by great mischance 
He heard but fragments of her later words, 
And that she fear'd she was not a true wife. 
And then he thought, " In spite of all my care, 
For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains. 
She is not faithful to me, and I see her 
Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur's hall." 
Then, tho' he loved and reverenced her too much 
To dream she could be guilty of foul act. 
Right thro' his manful breast darted the pang 
That makes a man, in the sweet face of her 
Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable. 
At this he hurl'd his huge limbs out of bed. 
And shook his drowsy squire awake and cried, 
"My charger and her palfrey;" then to her, 
" I will ride forth into the wilderness ; 
For tho' it seems my spurs arc yet to win, 

1 have not fall'n so low as some would wish. 
And thou, put on thy worst and meanest dress 
And ride with me." And Enid ask'd, amazed, 
" If Enid errs, let Enid learn her fault." 

But he, " I charge thee, ask not, but obey." 
Then she bethought her of a faded silk, 
A faded mantle and a fiided veil. 
And moving toward a cedarn cabinet. 
Wherein she kept them folded reverently 
With sprigs of summer laid between the folds, 
She took them, and array'd herself therein. 
Remembering when first he came ou her 



Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, 
And all her foolish fears about the dress. 
And all his journey to her, as himself 
Had told her, and their coming to the court. 

For Arthur on the Whitsuntide before 
Held court at old Caerleon upon Usk. 
There on a day he sitting high in hall. 
Before him came a forester of Dean, 
Wet from the woods, with notice of a hart 
Taller than all his fellows, milky-white. 
First seen that day: these things he told the King. 
Then the good King gave order to let blow 
His horns for hunting on the morrow morn. 
And when the Queen petitiou'd for his leave 
To see the hunt, allow'd it easily. 
So with the morning all the court were gone. 
But Guinevere lay late into the morn. 
Lost in sweet dreams, and dreaming of her love 
For Lancelot, and forgetful of the hunt; 
But rose at last, a single maiden with her. 
Took horse, and forded Usk, and gain'd the wood ; 
There, on a little knoll beside it, stay'd 
Waiting to hear the hounds ; but heard instead 
A sudden sound of hoofs, for Prince Geraiut, 
Late also, wearing neither hunting-dress 
Nor weapon, save a golden-hilted brand, 
Came quickly flashiug thro' the shallow ford 
Behind them, and so gallop'd up the knoll. 
A purple scarf, at either end whereof 
There swung an apple of the purest gold, 
Sway'd round about him, as he gallop'd up 
To join them, glancing like a drag(m-fly 
In summer suit and silks of holiday. 
Low bow'd the tributary Prince, and she, 
Sweetly and statelily, and with all grace 
Of womanhood and queenhood, answer'd him : 
"Late, late. Sir Prince," she said, "later th:iu we!" 
"Yea, noble Queen," he answer'd, "and so late 
That I but come like you to see the hunt. 
Not join it." "Therefore wail with me," she said; 
" For on this little knoll, if anywhere. 
There is good chance that we shall hear the hounds: 
Here often they break covert at our feet." 

And while they listen'd for the distant hunt. 
And chiefly for the baying of Cavall, 
King Arthur's hound of deepest mouth, there rode 
Full slowly by a knight, lad}', and dwarf; 
Whereof the dwarf lagg'd latest, and the knight 
Had vizor up, and show'd a youthful face. 
Imperious, and of haughtiest lineaments. 
And Guinevere, not mindful of his face 
In the King's hall, desired his name, and eeut 
Her maiden to demand it of the dwarf; 
Who being vicious, old and irritable. 
And doubling all his master's vice of pride, 
Made answer sharply that she should not kuow. 
" Then will I a*k it of himself," she said. 
"Nay, by my faith, thou shalt not," cried the dwarf; 
" Thou art not worthy ev'n to speak of him ;" 
And when she put her horse toward the knight. 
Struck at her with his whip, and she returu'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; whereat Geraint 
Exclaiming, "Surely I will learn the name," 
Made sharply to the dwarf, and ask'd it of him. 
Who answer'd as before ; and when the Prince 
Had put his horse in motion toward the knight. 
Struck at him with his whip, and cut his cheek. 
The Prince's blood spirted upon the scarf. 
Dyeing it ; and his quick, instinctive baud 
Caught at the hilt, as to abolish him : 
But he, from his exceeding man fulness 
And pure nobility of temperament. 
Wroth to be wroth at such a worm, refrain 'd 
Prom ev'n a word, and so returning said : 

"I will avenge this insult, noble Queen, 



164 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



Done ill your maiden's person to youiself: 
And I will track this vermiu to tlieir earllis: 
For tlio' I ride uiiarm'd, I do not doubt 
To find, at some place I shall come at, arms 
On loan, or else for pledge ; and, beinir found, 
Theu will I tight him, and will breali his pride, 
And on the third day will again be here, 
So that I be not fall'u iu flght. Farewell." 

" Farewell, fair Prince," answer'd the stately Queen. 
" Be prosperous lu this journey, as in all ; 
And may you light on all things that you love, 
And live to wed with her whom tirst you love: 
But ere you wed with any, bring your bride, 
And I, were she the daughter of a king, 
Yea, tho' she were a beggar from the hedge, 
Will clothe her for her bridals like the sun." 

And Prince Geraint, now thinking that he heard 
The noble hart at bay, now the far horn, 
A little vest at losing of the hunt, 
A little at the vile occasion, rode, 
By ups and downs, thro' many a grassy glade 
And valley, with flxt eye following the three. 
At last they issued from the world of wood, 
And climb'd upon a fair and even ridge, 
And show'd themselves against the sky, and sank. 
And thither came Geraint, and underneath 
Beheld the long street of a little town 
Iu a long valley, on one side whereof, 
White from the mason's hand, a fortress rose ; 
And on one side a castle iu decay, 
Beyond a bridge that spanu'd a dry ravine: 
And out of town and valley came a noise 
As of a bmad brook o'er a shingly bed 
Brawling, or like a clamor of the rooks 
At distance, ere they settle for the night. 

And onward to the fortress rode the three, 
And enter'd, and were lost behind the walls. 
"So," thought Geraint, "I have track'd him to his 

earth." 
And down the long street riding wearily, 
Found every hostel full, and everywhere 
Was hammer laid to hoof, and the hot hiss 
And bustling whistle of the youth who scour'd 
His master's armor ; and of such a one 
He ask'd, " What means the tumult iu the town ?" 
Who told him, scouring still, "The sparrow-hawk!" 
Then riding close behind an ancient churl, 
Who, smitten by the dusty sloping beam, 
Went sweating underneath a sack of corn, 
Ask'd yet once more what meant the hubbub here ? 
Who answer'd gruffly, "Ugh! the sparrow-hawk." 
Then riding further past an armorer's, 
Who, with back turn'd, and bow'd above his work. 
Sat riveting a helmet on his knee, 
He put the self-same query, but the man 
Not turning round, nor looking at him, said: 
"Friend, he that labors for the sparrow-hawk 
Has little time for idle questioners." 
Whereat Geraint flash'd into sudden spleen : 
"A thousand pips eat n\i your sparrow-hawk! 
Tits, wrens, and all wing'd nothings peck him dead ! 
Ye think the rustic cackle of your bourg 
The murmur of the world ! What is it to me? 
O wretched set of sparrows, one and all. 
Who pipe of nothing but of sparrow-hawks ! 
Speak, if ye be not like the rest, hawk-mad. 
Where can I get me harborage for the night ? 
And arms, arms, arms to tight my enemy ? Speak !" 
Whereat the armorer turning all amazed 
And seeing one so gay iu pnrple silks, 
Came forward with the helmet yet in hand 
And answer'd, "Pardon me, O stianger knight; 
We hold a tourney here to-morrow morn. 
And there is scantly time for half the work. 
Arms? truth! I know not: all are wanted here. 



Harborage? truth, good truth, I know not, save, 
It may be, at Earl Yuiol's, o'er the biidge 
Yonder."' He spoke and fell to work again. 

Then rode Geraint, a little spleenful yet, 
Across the bridge that spann'd the dry ravine. 
There musing sat the hoary-headed Earl 
(His dress a suit of Iray'd raagnilicence, 
Once tit for feasts of ceremony), and said : 
" Whither, fair son ?" to whom Geraint replied, 
" O friend, I seek a harborage for the night." 
Theu Yniol, " Enter therefore and partake 
The slender entertainment of a house 
Once rich, now poor, but ever open-door'd." 
"Thanks, venerable frieud," replied Geraint: 
"So tliat ye do not serve me sparrow-hawks 
For supper, I will enter, I .will eat 
With all the passion of a twelve hours' fast." 
Then sigh'd and smiled the hoary-headed Earl, 
And answer'd, " Graver cause than yours is mine 
To curse this hedgerow thief, the sparrow-hawk: 
But in, go in; for save yourself desire it, 
We will not touch upon him ev'u iu jest." 

Then rode Geraint into the castle court. 
His charger trampling many a prickly star 
Of sprouted thistle ou the broken stones. 
He look'd and saw that all was ruinous. 
Here stood a shatter'd archway plumed with fern; 
And here had fall'n a great part of a tower, 
Whole, like a crag that tumbles from the cliflf, 
And like a crag was gay with wilding flowers: 
And high above a piece of turret stair. 
Worn by the feet that now were silent, wound 
Bare to the sun, and monstrous ivy-stems 
Claspt the gray walls with hairy-fibred arms, 
And suck'd the joining of the stones, and look'd 
A knot, beneath, of snakes, aloft, a grove. 

And while he waited in the castle court, 
The voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang 
Clear thro' the open casement of the hall, 
Singing ; and as the sweet voice of a bird, 
Heard by the lauder iu a lonely isle, 
Moves him to think what kind of bird it i& 
That sings so delicately clear, and make 
Conjecture of the plumage and the form ; 
So the sweet voice of Enid moved Geraiutr 
And made him like a man abroad at moru 
When first the liquid note beloved of mej 
Cimies flying over many a windy wave 
To Britain, and in April suddenly 
Breaks from a coppice gemm'd with green and red, 
And he suspends his converse with a Irienu, 
Or it may be the labor of his hands, 
To think or say, "There is the ntglitiugale ;" 
So fared it with Geraint, who tho.ighl and said, 
" Here, by God's grace, is tht cue voice for me.'' 

It chanced the song that Enid sang was one 
Of Fortune and her wheel, and Euid sang : 

'Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the 

proud ; 
Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and 

cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. 

"Turn, Fortnue, turn thy wheel with smile or 
frown ; 
With that wild wheel we go not up or down ; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. 

" Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands ; 
Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands ; 
For man is man and master of his fate. 

" Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd ; 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



16S 



Thy wheel and thou are shadows iu the cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thse we neither love uor hate.'" 

"Hark, by the bird's soug ye may learn the nest," 
Said Yuiol ; "enter quickly." Entering then, 
Flight o'er a mount of newly-fallen stones, 
The diisky-rafter'd niauy-cobwebb'd hall. 
He found an ancient dame in dim brocade; 
And near her, like a blo^ssom vermeil-white, 
That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath. 
Moved the fair Euid, all in faded silk. 
Her daughter. Iu a moment thought Geraint, 
"Here by God's rood is the one maid for me." 
But none spake word except the hoary Earl : 
" Enid, the good knight's horse stands iu the court ; 
Take him to stall, and give him coru, and then 
Go to the town and buy ns flesh and wine ; 
And we will make us merry as we may. 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great." 

He spake: the Prince, as Euid past hhn, fain 
To follow, strode a stride, but Yuiol caught 
His purple scarf, and held, and said, "Forbear! 
Eest ! the good house, tho' ruin'd, O my son. 
Endures not that her guest should serve himself." 
And reverencing the custom of the house, 
Geraint, from utter courtesy, forbore. 

So Euid took his charger to the stall ; 
And after went her way across the bridge. 
And reach'd the town, and while the Prince and Earl 
Yet spoke together, came again with one, 
A youth, that following with a costrel bore 
The means of goodly welcome, flesh and wine. 
And Enid brought sweet cakes to make them cheer, 
And iu her veil enfolded, manchet bread. 
And then, because their hall must also serve 
For kitchen, boil'd the flesh, and spread the board, 
And stood behind, and waited on the three. 
And seeing her so sweet and serviceable, 
Geraint had longing in him evermore 
To stoop and kiss the tender little thumb. 
That crost the trencher as she laid it down : 
But after all had eaten, then Geraint, 
For now the wine made summer in his veins, 
Let his eye rove in following, or rest 
On Enid at her lowly hand-maid-work. 
Now here, now there, about the dusky hall ; 
Then suddenly addrest the hoary Earl : 

"Fair host and earl, I pray your courtesy; 
This sparrow-hawk, what is he ? tell me of him. 
His name ? but no, good faith, I will not have it : 
For if he be the knight whom late I saw 
Ride into that new fortress by your town. 
White from the mason's hand, then have I sworn 
From his own lips to have it— I am Geraint 
Of Devon — for this morning when the Queeu 
Sent her own maiden to demand the name. 
His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing, 
Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd 
Indignant to the Queen ; and then I swore 
That I would track this caitiff to his hold. 
And fight and break his pride, and have it of him. 
And all unarm'd I rode, and thought to find 
Arms iu your town, where all the men are mad ; 
They take the rustic murmur of their bourg 
For the great wave that echoes round the world ; 
They would not hear me speak ; but if ye know 
Where I can light on arms, or if yourself 
Should have them, tell me, seeing I have sworn 
That I will break his pride and learn his name. 
Avenging this great insult done the Queeu." 

Then cried Earl Yniol, "Art thou he indeed, 
Grcraint, a name far-sounded among men 
For noble deeds ? and truly I, when first 
I saw you moving by me on the bridge, 



Felt ye were somewhat, yea, and by your state 

And presence might have giiess'd you one of those 

That eat in Arthur's hall at C'amelot. 

Nor speak I now from foolish flattery ; 

For this dear child hath often heard me praise 

Your feats of arms, and often when I paused 

Hath ask'd again, and ever loved to hear; 

So grateful is the noise of noble deeds 

To noble hearts who see but acts of wrong : 

never yet had woman such a pair 

Of suitors as this maiden ; first Limours, 
A creature wholly given to brawls and wine. 
Drunk even when he woo'd ; and be he dead 

1 know not, but he past to the wild land. 
The second was your foe, the sparrow-hawk. 
My curse, my nephew— I will not let his name 
Slip from my lips if I can help it — he, 
Wheu I that knew him fierce and turbulent 
Refused her to him, then his pride awoke ; 
And since the proud man often is the mean, 
He sow'd a slandeiviu the common ear. 
Affirming that his father left him gold. 

And in my charge, which was not render'd to him • 

Bribed with large promises the men who served 

About my person, the more easily 

Because my means were somewhat broken into 

Thro' opeu doors and hospitality ; 

Raised my own town against me in the night 

Before my Enid's birthday, sack'd my house ; 

From mine own earldom foully ousted me ; 

Built that new fort to overawe my friends, 

For truly there are those who love me yet ; 

And keeps me in this ruinous castle here. 

Where doubtless he would put me soon to death, 

But that his pride too much despises me : 

And I myself sometimes despise myself; 

For I have let men be, and have their way ; 

Am much too gentle, have not used my power: 

Nor know I whether I be very base 

Or very manful, whether very wise 

Or very foolish ; only this I know, 

That whatsoever evil happeu to me, 

I seem to suflfer nothing heart or limb, 

But can endure it all most patiently." 

"Well said, true heart," replied Geraint, "but 
arms, 
That if the sparrow-hawk, this nephew, fight 
In nest day's tourney I may break his pride." 

And Yuiol answered, "Arms, indeed, but old 
And rusty, old and rusty. Prince Geraint, 
Are mine, and therefore at thine asking, thine. 
But in this tournament can no man tilt, 
Except the lady he loves best be there. 
Two forks are fixt into the meadow ground, 
And over these is placed a silver wand, 
And over that a golden sparrow-hawk, 
The prize of beauty for the fairest there. 
And this, what knight soever be in field 
Lays claim to for the lady at his side. 
And tilts with my good nephew thereupon. 
Who being apt at arms and big of boiie 
Has ever won it for the lady with him, 
And toppling over all antagtmism 
Has earn'd himself the name of sparrow-hawk. 
But thou, that hast no lady, canst not fight." 

To whom Geraint with eyes all bright replied, 
Leaning a little toward him, "Thy leave! 
Let me lay lance in rest, O noble host. 
For this dear child, because I never saw, 
Tho' having seen all beauties of our time, 
Nor can see elsewhere, anything so fair. 
And if I fall her name will yet remain 
Uutarnish'd as before ; but if I live, 
So aid me Heaven when at mine uttermost, 
As I will make her truly my true wife." 



1C6 



GERATNT AND ENID. 



Then, howsoevei- patient, Yniol's heart 
Danced iu his bosom, seeing better days. 
And looking round he saw not Enid there 
(Who hearing her own name had slipt away), 
But that old dame, to whom full tenderly 
And fondling all her hand iu his he said, 
"Mother, a maiden is a tender thing. 
And best by her that bore her understood. 
Go thou to rest, but ere thou go to rest 
Tell her, and prove her heart toward the Prince." 

So spake the kindly-hearted Earl, and she 
With frequent smile and nod departing found, 
Half disarray'd as to her rest, the girl; 
Whom first she kiss'd on either cheek, and then 
On either shining shoulder laid a hand, 
And kept her ofl" and gazed upon her face, 
And told her all their converse in the hall. 
Proving her heart: but never light and shade 
Coursed one another more on open ground 
Beneath a troubled heaven, than /ed and pale 
Across the face of Enid hearing her ; 
While slowly falling as a scale that falls. 
When weight is added oidy grain by grain, 
Sank her sweet head upon her gentle breast; 
Nor did she lift an eye nor speak a word, 
Rapt in the fear and iu the wonder of it ; 
So moving without answer to her rest 
She found no rest, and ever fail'd to draw 
The quiet night into her blood, but lay 
Contemplating her own unworthiness ; 
And when the pale and bloodless east began 
To quicken to the sun, arose, and raised 
Her n^other too, and hand in hand they moved 
Down to the meadow where the jousts were held. 
And waited there for Yuiol and Geraint. 

And thither came the twain, and when Geraint 
Beheld her first in field, awaiting him. 
He felt, were she the prize of bodily force. 
Himself beyond the rest pushing could move 
The chair of Idris. Yniol's rusted arms 
Were on his princely person, but thro' these 
Princelike his bearing shone; and errant knights 
And ladies came, and by and by the town 
Flow'd in, and settling circled all the lists. 
Ana there they fixt the forks into the ground. 
And over these they placed the silver wand, 
And over that the golden sparrow-hawk. 
Then Yniol's nephew, after trumpet-blown. 
Spake to the lady with him and proclaim'd, 
"Advance and take as fairest of the fair. 
For I these two years past have won it for thee. 
The i)rize of beauty." Loudly spake the Prince, 
"Forbear: there is a worthier," and the knight 
With some surprise and thrice as much disdain 
Turn'd, and beheld the four, and all his face 
Glow'd like the heart of a great fire at Yule, 
So burnt he was with passion, crying out, 
"Do battle for it then," no more; and thrice 
They clash'd together, and thrice they brake their 

spears. 
Then each, disborsed and drawing, lash'd at each 
So often and with such blows, that all the crowd 
Wonder'd, and now and then from distant walls 
There came a clapping as of phantom hands. 
So twice they fought, and twice they breathed, and 

still 
The dew of their great labor, and the blood 
Of then- strong bodies, flowing, drain'd their force. 
But either's force was match'd till Yniol's cry, 
" Remember that great insult done the Queen." 
Increased Geraint's, who heaved his blade aloft, 
And crack'd the helmet thro', and bit the bone, 
And fell'd him, and set foot upon bis breast, 
And said, "Thy name?" To whom the fallen man 
Made answer, groaning, "Edyrn, son of Nudd 1 
Ashamed am I that I should tell it thee. 



My pride is broken : men have seen my fall." 
'• Then, Edyrn, sou of Nudd," replied Geraint, 
"These two things shalt thou do, or else thou diest. 
First, thou thyself, with damsel and with dwarf, 
Shalt ride to Arthur's court, and coming there. 
Crave pardon for that insult done the Queeu, 
And shalt abide her judgment on it; next. 
Thou shalt give back their earldom to thy kin. 
These two things shalt thou do, or thou shalt die.' 
.\nd Edyrn auswer'd, "These things will I do. 
For I have never yet been overthrown. 
And thou hast overthrown me, and my pride 
Is broken down, for Enid sees my fall !" 
And rising up, he rode to Arthur's court. 
And there the Queen forgave him easily. 
And being young, he changed and came to loathe 
His crime of traitor, slowly drew himself 
Bright from his own dark life, and fell at last 
Iu the great battle fighting for the King. 

But when the third day from the hnnting-moru 
Made a low splendor in the world, and wings 
Moved in her ivy, Enid, for she lay 
With her fair head in the dim-yellow light, 
Among the dancing shadows of the birds. 
Woke and bethought her of her promise given 
No later than last eve to Prince Geraint — 
So bent he seem'd on going the third day. 
He would not leave her, till her promise given — 
To ride with him this morning to the court. 
And there be made known to the stately Queen, 
And there be wedded with all ceremony. 
At this she cast her eyes upon her dress, 
And thought it never yet had look'd so mean. 
For as a leaf in mid-November is 
To what it was in mid-October, seem'd 
The dress that now she look'd on to the dress 
She look'd on ere the coming of Geraint. 
And still she look'd, and still the terror grew 
Of that strange bright and dreadful thing, a court, 
All staring at her in her faded silk: 
And softly to her own sweet heart she said : 

"This noble Prince who won our earldom back, 
So splendid in his acts and his attire, 
Sweet heaven, how much I shall discredit him ! 
Would he could tarry with ns here awhile. 
But being so beholden to the Prince, 
It were but little grace in any of us. 
Bent as he seem'd ou going this third day, 
To seek a second favor at his hands. 
Yet if he could but tarry a day or two. 
Myself would work eye dim, and finger lame, 
Far liefer than so much discredit him." 

And Enid fell in longing for a dress 
All brauch'd and flower'd with gold, a costly gift 
Of her good mother, given her on the night 
Before her birthday, three sad years ago, 
That night of fire, when Hdyrn sack'd their house. 
And scatter'd all they had to all the winds: 
For while the mother show'd it, and the two 
Were turning and admiring it, the work 
To both appear'd so costly, rose a cry 
That Edyrn's men were on them, and they fled 
With little save the jewels they had on. 
Which being sold and sold had bought them bread; 
And Edyrn's men had caught them in their flight, 
And placed them in this ruin; and she wish'd 
The Prince had found her in her ancient home; 
Then let her fancy flit across the past, 
And roam the goodly places that she knew ; 
And last bethought her how she used to watch, 
Near that old home, a pool of golden carp ; 
And one was patch'd and blurr'd and lustreless 
Among his bnrnish'd brethren of the pool ; 
And half asleep she made comparison 
Of that and these to her own faded self 



) 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



ir,7 



And the gay court, and fell asleep again ; 

And dreamt herself was such a faded form 

Among her buruish'd sisters of the i)ool ; 

But this was in the garden of a king ; 

And tho' she lay dark in tlie pool, she knew 

That all was bright ; that all about were birds 

Of sunny plume iu gilded trellis-work; 

That all the turf was rich in plots that look'd 

Each like a garnet or a turkis in it; 

And lords and ladies of the high court went 

In silver tissue talking things of state ; 

And children of the King in cloth of gold 

Glanced at the doors or gambol'd down the walks ; 

Aud while she thought "They will uot see uie," 

came 
A stately queen whose name was Guinevere, 
Aud all the children in their cloth of gold 
Ran to her, crying, " If we have tish at all 
Let them be gold ; and charge the gardeners now 
To pick the faded creature from the pool, 
And cast it on the mixen that it die." 
And therewithal one came and seized on her, 
Aud Enid started waking, with her heart 
All overshadow'd by the foolish dream. 
And lo ! it was her mother grasping her 
To get her well awake ; aud iu her hand 
A suit of bright apparel, which she laid 
Flat on the couch, aud spoke exultingly: 

" See here, my child, how fresh the colors look. 
How fast they hold like colors of a shell 
That keeps the wear and polish of the wave. 
Why not ? it never yet was worn, I trow : 
Look ou it, child, and tell me if ye know it." 

And Enid look'd, but all confused at first. 
Could scarce divide it from her foolish dream: 
Then suddenly she knew it and rejoiced, 
And answer'd, "Yea, I know it; your good gift, 
So sadly lost on that unhappy night ; 
Your own good gift I" "Yea, surely," said the dame, 
"And gladly given again this hapjiy morn. 
For when the jousts were ended yesterday. 
Went Ynio! through the town, and everywhere 
He found the sack and plunder of our house 
All scatfer'd thro' the houses of the town ; 
And gave command that all which once was ours 
Should now be ours again : and yester-eve. 
While ye were talking sweetly with your Prince, 
Came one with this and laid it in my hand, 
For love or fear, or seeking favor of us, 
Because we have our earldom back again. 
And yester-eve I would not tell you of it. 
But kept it for a sweet surprise at morn. 
Yea, truly, is it not a sweet surprise? 
For I myself unwillingly have worn 
My faded suit, as you, my child, have yours, 
And, howsoever patient, Yniol his. 
Ah, dear, he took me from a goodly house. 
With store of rich apparel, sumptuous fare, 
And page, and maid, and squire, and seneschal. 
And pastime both of hawk and hound, aud all 
That appertains to noble maintenance. 
JVea, and he brought me to a goodly house ; 
But since our fortune slipt from sun to shade, 
And all thro' that young traitor, cruel need 
Constrain'd us, but a better time has come ; 
So clothe yourself in this, that better fits 
Our mended fortunes and a Prince's bride: 
For tho' ye won the prize of fairest fair. 
And tho' I heard him call you fairest fair, 
Let never maiden think, however fair. 
She is not fairer in new clothes than old. 
And should some great court-lady say, the Prince 
Hath pick'd a ragged-robin from the hedge. 
And like a madman brought her to the court. 
Then were ye shamed, and, worse, might shame the 
Prince 



To whom we are beholden ; but I know, 
When my dear child is set forth at her best. 
That neither court nor country, tho' they sought 
Thro' all the provinces like those of old 
That lighted ou Queen Esther, has her match." 

Here ceased the kindly mother out of breath ; 
And Enid listeu'd brightening as she lay; 
Then, as the white and glittering star of morn 
Parts from a bank of snow, and by and by 
Slips into golden cloud, the maiden rose. 
And left her maiden couch, aud robed herself, 
Help'd by the mother's careful hand and eye, 
Without a mirror, in the gorgeous gown ; 
Who, after, turn'd her daughter round, aud said. 
She never yet had seen her half so fair; 
And call'd her like that maiden iu the tale, 
Wh(mi Gwydion made by glamour out of flowers. 
And sweeter than the bride of Cassivelaun, 
Flur, for whose love the Koman Csesar first 
Invaded Britain, "but we beat him back. 
As this great Prince invaded us, and we, 
Not beat him back, but welcomed him with joy. 
Aud I can scarcely ride with you to court. 
For old am I, and rough the ways and wild ; 
But Yniol goes, aud I fidl oft shall dream 
I see my princess as I see her now, 
Clothed with my gift, and gay among the gay." 

But while the women thus rejoiced, Geraint 
Woke where he slept in the high hall, and call'd 
For Enid, and when Yniol made report 
Of that good mother making Enid gay 
In such apparel as might well beseem 
His princess, or indeed the stately Queen, 
He answer'd: "Earl, entreat her by my love, 
Albeit I give no reason but my wish, 
That she ride with me in her faded silk." 
Yniol with that hard message went; it fell 
Like flaws in summer laying lusty corn: 
For Enid, all abash'd, she knew not why. 
Dared not to glance at her good mother's face, 
But silently, iu all obedience. 
Her mother silent too, nor helping her, 
Laid from her limbs the costly-broider'd gift, 
And robed them iu her ancient suit again, 
And so descended. Never man rejoiced 
More than Geraint to greet her thus attired ; 
And glancing all at once as keenly at her 
As careful robins eye the delver's toil. 
Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall, 
But rested, with her sweet face satisfied; 
Theu seeing cloud upon the mother's brow. 
Her by both hands he caught, aud sweetly said, 

"O my new mother, be not wroth or grieved 
At thy new son, for my petition to her. 
When late I left Caerleon, our great Queen, 
In words whose echo lasts, they were so sweet. 
Made promise, that whatever bride I brought. 
Herself would clothe her like the sun in heaven. 
Thereafter, when I reach'd this ruin'd hall, 
Beholding one so bright in dark estate, 
I vow'd that, could I gain her, our fair Queen, 
No hand but hers, should make your Enid burst, 
Suiilike, from chmd— and likewise thought, perhaps, 
That service done so graciously would bind 
The two together ; fain I would the two 
Should love each other: how can Enid find 
A nobler friend ? Auoiher thought was mine ; 
I came among you here so suddenly. 
That tho' her gentle presence at the lists 
Might well have served for proof that I was loved, 
I doubted whether daughter's tenderness, 
Or easy nature, might not let itself 
Be moulded by your wishes for her weal ; 
Or whether some false sense In her own self 
Of my contrasting brightness, overbore 



1G8 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



f'-p.'- 



Her faucy dwelling in this dusky hall ; 

Aud such a sense might make her long for court 

And all its perilous glories: aud I thought, 

That could I someway prove such force in her, 

Lfiik'd with such love for me, that at a word 

(No reas<in given her) she could cast aside 

A splendor dear to women, new to her. 

And therefore dearer ; or, if not so new. 

Yet therefore tenfold dearer by the power 

Of Intermitted usage ; then I felt 

That I could rest, a rock in ebbs and flows, 

Fixt on her faith. Now, therefore, I do rest, 

A prophet certain of my prophecy. 

That never shadow of mistrust can cross 

Between us. Grant me pardon for my thoughts: 

Aud for my strange petition I will make 

Amends hereafter by some gaudy-day. 

When your fair child shall wear your costly gift 

Beside your owu warm hearth, with, on her knees, 

Who knows ? another gift of the high God, 

Which, maybe, shall have learu'd to lisp you thauks." 

He spoke: the mother smiled, but half in tears, 
Then brought a mantle down aud wrapt her in it, 
Aud claspt aud kiss'd her, and they rode away. 

Now thrice that morning Guinevere had climb'd 
The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say, 
Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, 
And white sails flyiug on the yellow sea; 
But not to goodly hill or yellow sea 
Look'd the fair Queen, but up the vale of TJsk, 
By the flat meadow, till she saw them come ; 
Aud then descending, met them at the gates. 
Embraced her with all welcome as a friend. 
And did her honor as the Prince's bride. 
And clothed her for her bridals like the sun ; 
Aud all that week was old Caerleon gay. 
For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint. 
They twain were wedded with all ceremony. 

And this was on the last year's Whitsuntide. 
But Enid ever kept the faded silk. 
Remembering how first he came on her, 
Brest in that dress, and how he loved her in it, 
Aud all her foolish fears about the dres&, 
Aud all his journey toward her, as himself 
Had told her, aud their coming to the court. 

And now this morning, when he said to her, 
" Put on your worst and meanest dress," she found 
And took it, aud array'd herself therein. 

II. 

O PFEBUND race of miserable men, 
How many among us at this very hour 
Do forge a life-loug trouble for ourselves. 
By taking true for false, or false for true ; 
Here, thro' the feeble twilight of this world 
Groping, how many, until we pass and reach 
That other, where we see as we are seen ! 

So fared it with Geraint, who, issuing forth 
That morning, when they both had got to horse, 
Perhaps because he loved her passionately. 
And felt that tempest brooding round his heart, 
Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce 
Upon a head so dear iu thunder, said: 
"Not at my side. I charge thee ride before. 
Ever a good way on before ; and this 
I charge thee, ou thy duty as a wife. 
Whatever happens, not to speak to me. 
No, not a word 1" and Enid was aghast ; 
And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on, 
When crying out, "Efi'eminate as I am, 
I will not fight my way with gilded arms. 
All shall be iron ;" he loosed a mighty purse, 



Hung at his belt, and hurl'd it toward the squire. 

So the last sight that Enid had of home 

Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown 

With gold and scatter'd coinage, and the squire 

Chaflug his shoulder: then he cried again, 

"To the wilds!'' and Enid leading down the tracks 

Thro' which he bade her lead him ou, they past 

The marches, and by bandit hauuted holds, 

Gray swamps aud pools, waste places of the hern. 

And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode: 

Rouud was their pace at first, but slacken'd soon: 

A stranger meeting them had surely thought, 

They rode so slowly and they look'd so pale. 

That each had sufi'er'd some exceeding wrong. 

For he was ever saying to himself, 

" O I that wasted time to tend upon her, 

To compass her with sweet observances. 

To dress her beautifully and keep her true " — 

And there he broke the sentence in his heart 

Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue 

May break it, when his passion masters him. 

And she was ever praying the sweet heavens 

To save her dear lord whole from any wound. 

And ever iu her miud she cast about 

For that unnoticed failing in herself. 

Which made him look so cloudy aud so cold; 

Till the great plover's human whistle amazed 

Her heart, and glancing around the waste, she fear'd 

In every wavering brake an ambuscade. 

Then thought again, " If there be such in me, 

I might amend it by the grace of Heaven, 

If he would only speak aud tell me of it." 

But when the fourth part of the day was gone, 
Then Enid was aware of three tall knights 
On horseback, wholly arm'd, behind a rock 
In sliadow, waiting for them, caitiff's all ; 
And heard one crying to his fellow, "Look, 
Here comes a laggard hanging down his head. 
Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound; 
Come, we will slay him and will have his horse 
And armor, aud his damsel shall be ours." 

Then Euid ponder'd in her heart, and said: 
" I will go back a little to my lord, 
And I will tell him all their caitift' talk ; 
For, be he wroth even to slaying me. 
Far liefer by his dear hand had I die. 
Than that my lord should suflTer loss or shame." 

Then she went back some paces of return. 
Met his full frowu timidly firm, and said : 
" My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock 
Waiting to fall on you, and heard them boast 
That they would slay you, and possess your horse 
Aud armor, and your damsel should be theirs." 

He made a wrathful answer: "Did I wish 
Your warning or your silence? one command 
I laid upon you, not to speak to me, 
Aud thus ye keep it ! Well then, look— for now, 
AVhether ye wish me victory or defeat. 
Long for my life, or hunger for my death, 
Yourself shall see my vigor is not lost." 

Theu Euid waited pale and sorrowful. 
And down upon him bare the bandit three. 
Aud at the midmost charging. Prince Geraint 
Drave the long spear a cubit thro' his breast. 
And out beyond; and then against his brace 
Of comrades, each of whom had broken ou him 
A lance that splinter'd like an icicle. 
Swung from his brand a windy bufl'et out 
Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunn'd the twain, 
Or slew them, and dismounting like a man 
That skins the wild beast after slaying him, 
Stript from the three dead wolves of woman born 
The three gay suits of armor which they wore, 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



109 



And let the bodies lie, but bomul the suits 
Of armor on their horses, each on eiuih, 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the three 
Together, and said to her, "Drive them on 
Before you ;" and she drove them thro' the waste. 

He follow'd nearer: ruth began to work 
Against his anger in him, while he watch'd 
The being he loved best in uU the world, 
With difficulty in mild obedience 
Driving them on : he fain had spoken to her, 
And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath 
And snioulder'd wrong that burnt him all within ; 
But evermore it seem'd an easier thing 
At once without remorse to strike her dead, 
Thau to cry "Halt," and to her own bright face 
Accuse her of the least immodesty : 
And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more 
That she could speak whom his own ear had heard 
Call herself false : and suffering thus he made 
Minutes an age : but in scarce longer time 
Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, 
Before he turn to fall seaward again, 
Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold 
In the first shallow shade of a deep wood, 
Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks. 
Three other horsemen waiting, wholly arm'd, 
Whereof one seem'd far larger than her lord. 
And shook her pulses, crying, "Look, a prize! 
Three horses and three goodly suits of arms, 
And all in charge of whom? a girl: set on." 
"Nay," said the second, "yonder comes a knight." 
The third, "A craven; how he hangs his head." 
The giant answer'd merrily, " Yea, but cue ? 
Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him." 

And Enid ponder'd in her heart, and said, 
" I will abide the coming of my lord, 
And I will tell him all their villainy. 
My lord is weary with the fight before, 
And they will fall upon him unawares. 
I needs must disobey him for his good ; 
How should I dare obey him to his harm? 
Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill me for it, 
I save a life dearer to me than mine." 

And she abode his coming, and said to him, 
With timid firmness, "Have I leave to speak?" 
He said, "Ye take it, speaking," and she spoke. 

"There lurk three villains yonder in the wood, 
And each of them is wholly arm'd, and one 
Is larger-limb'd than you are, and they say 
That they will fall upon you while ye pass." 

To which he flung a wrathful answer back: 
"And if there were an hundred in the wood. 
And every man were larger-limb'd than I, 
And all at once should sally out upon me, 
I swear it would not ruffle me so much 
As you that not obey me. Stand aside. 
And if I fall, cleave to the better man." 

And Enid stood aside to wait the event, 
Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe 
Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath. 
And he she dreaded most, bare down upon him. 
Aini'd at the helm, his lance err'd ; but Geraint's, 
A little in the late encounter strain'd, 
Struck thro' the bulky bandit's corselet home, 
And then brake short, and down his enemy roll'd, 
And there lay still ; as he that tells the tale 
Saw once a great piece of a promontory. 
That had a sapling growing on it, slide 
Prom the long shore-cliff's windy walls to the beach. 
And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew: 
So lay the man transflxt. His craven pair 
Of comrades, making slowlier at the Prince, 



When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood ; 
On whom the victor, to confound them more, 
Spurr'd with his terrible war-cry ; for as one. 
That listens near a torrent mountain-brook. 
All thro' the crash of the near cataract hears 
The drumming thunder of the huger fall 
At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear 
His voice in battle, and be kindled by it, 
And foeinen scared, like that false pair who turn'd 
Plying, but, overtaken, died the death 
Themselves had wrought on many an innocent. 

Thereon Geraint, dismounting, pick'd the lance 
That pleased him best, and drew from those dead 

wolves 
Their three gay suits of armor, each from each, 
And bound them on their horses, each on each, 
And tied the bridle-reins of all the three 
Together, and said to her, "Drive them on 
Before you," and she drove them thro' the wood. 

He follow'd nearer still ; the pain she had 
To keep them in the wild ways of the wood, 
Two sets of three laden with jingling arms, 
Together, served a little to disedge 
The sharpness of that pain about her heart: 
And they themselves, like creatures gently born. 
But into bad hands fi^ll'n, and now so long 
By bandits groom'd, prick'd their light ears, and felt 
Her low firm voice and tender government. 

So thro' the green gloom of the wood they past, 
And issuing under open heavens, beheld 
A little town with towers, upon a rock, 
And close beneath, a meadow, gemlike, chased 
In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it: 
And down a rocky pathway from the place 
There came a fair-hair'd youth, that in his hand 
Bare victual for the mowers: and Geraint 
Had ruth again on Enid looking pale: 
Then, moving downward to the meadow ground. 
He, when the fair-hair'd youth came by him, said, 
" Priend, let her eat ; the damsel is so faint." 
"Yea, willingly," replied the youth; "and thou, 
My lord, eat also, tho' the fare is coarse. 
And only meet for mowers ;" then set down 
His basket, and dismounting on the sward. 
They let the horses graze, and ate themselves. 

And Enid took a little delicately, -"" 

Less having stomach for it than desire 

To close with her lord's pleasure ; but Geraint 

Ate all the mowers' victual unawares. 

And when he found all empty, was amazed; 

And, "Boy," said he, "I have eaten all, but take 

A horse and arms for guerdon : choose the best." 

He, reddening in extremity of delight, 

"My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold." 

"Ye will be all the wealthier," cried the Prince. 

"I take it as free gift, then," said the boy, 

" Not guerdon ; for myself can easily, 

While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch 

Presh victual for these mowers of our Earl : 

For these are his, and all the field is his, 

And I myself am his; and I will tell him 

How great a man thou art ; he loves to know 

WTien men of mark are in his territory ; 

And he will have thee to his palace here, 

And serve thee costlier than with mowers' fare." 

Then said Geraint, "I wish no better fare: 
I never ate with angrier appetite 
Than when I left your mowers dinuerless. 
And into no Earl's palace will I go. 
I know, God knows, too much of palaces ! 
And if he want me, let him come to me. 
But hire us some fair chamber for the night, 
And stalling for the horses, and return 
With victual for these men, and let us know." 



70 



GERAINT AND ENID, 



" Yea, my kind lord," said the glad youth, and 
went, 
Held his head high, and thought himself a knight, 
And up the rocky pathway disappear'd. 
Leading the horse, and they were left alone. 

But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes 
Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance 
At Enid, where she droopt: his own false doom, 
That shadow of mistrust should never cross 
Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sigh'd ; 
Then with another humorous ruth remark'd 
The lusty mowers laboring diuuerless, 
And watch'd the sun blaze on the turning scythe. 
And after nodded sleepily in the heat. 
But she, remembering her old ruin'd hall. 
And all the windy clamor of the daws 
Above her hullnw turret, pluck'd the grass, 
There growing longest by the meadow's edge. 
And into many a listless annulet, 
Now over, now beneath her marriage ring, 
Wove and unwove it, till the boy return'd. 
And told iheni of a chamber, and they went; 
Where, after saying to her, "If ye will. 
Call for the woman of the house," to which 
She auswer'd, " Thanks, my lord ;" the two remain'd 
Apart by all the chamber's width, and mute 
As creatures voiceless thro' the fault of birth. 
Or two wild men, supporters of a shield. 
Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance 
The one at other, parted by the shield. 

I 
On a sudden, many a voice along the street. 
And heel against the pavement echoing, burst 
Their drowse ; and either started while the door, 
Push'd from without, drave backward to the wall, 
And midmost of a rout of roisterers. 
Femininely fair and dissolutely pale. 
Her suitor in old years before Geraint, 
Enter'd, the wild lord of the i)lace, Limours. 
He, moving up with pliant courtliness. 
Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily, 
In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt hand, 
Found Enid with the corner 'of his eye, 
And knew her sitting sad and solitary. s 

Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer 
To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously, 
According to his fashion, bade the host 
Call in what men soever were his friends. 
And feast with these in honor of their Earl ; 
"And care not for the cost; the cost is mine." 

And wine and food were brought, and Earl Li- 
mours 
Drank till he jested with all ease, and told 
Free tales, and took the word and play'd upon It, 
And made it of two colors ; for his talk. 
When wine and free companions kindled him. 
Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem 
Of fifty facets; thus he moved the Prince 
To laughter and his comrades to applause. 
Then, when the Prince was 7nerry, ask'd Limonrs, 
" Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak 
To your good damsrl there who sits apart. 
And seems so lonely?" "My free leave," he said; 
"Get her to speak: she doth not spe.Tk to me." 
Then rose Limours, and looking at his feet. 
Like him who tries the bridge he fears may fail, 
C'rost and came near, lifted adoring eyes, 
Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisperiugly: 

"Enid, the pilot star of my lone life; 
Enid, my early and my only love ; 
Enid, the loss of whom hath turn'fl me wild — 
What chance is this? how is it I see you here? 
Ye are in my power at last, are in my power. 
Yet fear me not: I call mine own self wild. 
But keep a touch of sweet civility 



Here in the heart of waste and wilderness. 

I thought, but that your father came between, 

In former days you saw me favorably. 

And if it were so, do not keep it back: 

Make me a little happier: let me know it: 

Owe you me nothing for a life half-lost? 

Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are. 

And, Enid, you and he, I see with joy. 

Ye sit apart, you do not speak to him. 

You come with no attendance, page or maid, 

To serve you— doth he love you as of old? 

For, call it lovers' quarrels, yet I know 

Tho' men may bicker with the things they love. 

They would not make them laughable in all eyes. 

Not while they loved them ; and your wretched 

dress, 
A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks 
Your story, that this man loves you no more. 
Your beauty is no beauty to him now: 
A common chance — right well I know it — pall'd — 
For I know men: nor will ye win him back, 
For the man's love once gone never returns. 
But here is one who loves you as of old ; 
With more exceeding passion than of old: 
Good, speak the word : my followers ring him round 
He sits unarm'd ; I hold a linger up ; 
They understand : nay; I do not mean blood: 
Nor need ye look so scared at what I say : 
My malice Is no deeper than a moat. 
No stronger than a wall : there is the keep ; 
He shall not cross us more ; speak but the wore ; 
Or speak it not ; but then, by Him that made me. 
The one true lover whom you ever own'd, 
I will make use of all the power I have. 
Oh, pardon me! the madness of that hour. 
When first I parted from thee, moves me yet." 

At this the tender sound of his own voice 
And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it, 
Made his eye moist; but Enid fear'd his eyes. 
Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast; 
And answer'd with such craft as women use. 
Guilty or guiltless, to stave oflT a chance 
That breaks upon them perilously, and said: 

- " Earl, if you love me as in former years. 
And do not practise on me, come with morn, 
And snatch me from him as by violence ; 
Leave me to-night: I am weary to the death." 

Low at leave-taking, with his brandish'd plume 
Brushing his instep, bow'd the all-amorous Earl, 
And the stout Prince bade him a loud good-night 
He, moving homeward, babbled to his men. 
How Enid never loved a man but him. 
Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord. 

But Enid, left alone with Prince Geraint, 
Debating his command of silence given. 
And that she now perforce must violate it. 
Held commune with herself, and while she l.eld 
He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart 
To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleased 
To find him yet unwounded after fight, 
.And hear him breathing low and equally. 
Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heap'd 
The pieces of his armor in one place, 
All to be there against a sudden need ; 
Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoil'd 
By that day's grief and travel, evermore 
Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, and then 
Went slipping down horrible precipices. 
And strongly striking out her limbs, awoke ; 
Then thought she heard the wild Earl at the door, 
With all his rout of random followers, 
Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning her; 
Which was the red cock shouting to the light, 
As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy world. 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



171 



And glimmer'd on his armoi- iu the room. 

And once again slie rose to loolv at it, 

But tonch'd it unawares: janglinj;, the casque 

Fell, and he started up and stared at her. 

Then breaking his command of silence given, 

She told him all that Earl Limours had said, 

Except the passage that he loved her not; 

Nor left untold the craft herself had used ; 

But ended with apology so sweet. 

Low-spoken, and of so few words, and seem'd 

So justified by that necessity, 

That tho' he thought "was it for him she wept 

In Devon?" he but gave a wrathful groan. 

Saying, "Your sweet faces make good fellows fools 

And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring 

Charger and palfrey." So she glided out 

Among the heavy breathings of the house, 

And like a household Spirit at the walls 

Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and retnrn'd : 

Then tending her rough lord, tho' all uuask'd, 

In silence, did him service as a squire ; 

Till issuing arm'd, he found the host and cried, 

"Thy reckoning, friend?" and ere he learnt it, "Take 

Five horses and their armors ;" and the host, 

Suddenly honest, auswer'd in amaze, 

"My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of one!" 

"Ye will be all the wealthier," said the Prince, 

And then to Enid, " Forward ! and to-day 

I charge you, Enid, more especially. 

What thing soever ye may hear, or see. 

Or fancy (tho' I count it of small use 

To charge you) that ye speak not, but obey." 

And Enid answer'd, "Yea, my lord, I know 
Your wish, and would obey ; but riding first, 
I hear the violent threats you do not hear, 
I see the danger which you cannot see : 
Then not to give you warning, that seems hard ; 
Almost beyond me ; yet I would obey." 

"Yea so," said he, "do it: be not too wise; 
Seeing that ye are wedded to a man. 
Not all mismated with a yawning clown. 
But one with arms to guard his head and yours. 
With eyes to find you out, however far. 
And ears to hear you, even in his dreams." 

h- -^ 

' With that he turn'd and look'd as keenly at her 
As careful robins eye the delver's toil ; 
And that within hei', which a wanton fool 
Or hasty judger would have call'd her guilt, 
Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall. 
And Geraiut look'd and was not satisfied. 

Then forward by a way which, beaten broad. 
Led from the territory of false Limours 
To the waste earldom of another earl, 
Doorm, whom his shaking vassals call'd the Bull, 
Went Enid with her sullen follower on. 
Ouce she look'd back, and when she saw him ride 
More near by many a rood than yester-moru. 
It wellnigh made her cheerful ; till Geraint 
Waving an angry hand, as who should say, 
" Ye watch me," sadden'd all her heart again. 
But while the sun yet beat a dewy blade, 
The sound of many a heavily-galloping hoof 
Smote on her ear, and turning round, she saw 
Dust, and the points of lances bicker in it. 
Then, not to disobey her lord's behest. 
And yet to give him warning, for he rode 
As if he heard not, moving back, she held 
Her finger up, and pointed to the dust. 
At which the warrior in his obstinacy, 
Because she kept the letter of his w-ord. 
Was in a manner pleased, and turning, stood. 
And in a moment after, wild Limours, 
Borne on a black horse, like a thunder-cloud 
Whose skirts are loosen'd by the breaking storm, 



Half ridden off with by the thing he rode, 

And all in passion uttering a dry shriek, 

Dash'd on Geraint, who closed with him, and bore 

Down by the length of lance and arm beyond 

The crupper, and so left him stunn'd or dead, 

And overthrew the next that foUow'd him, 

And blindly rush'd on all the rout behind. 

But at the fiash and motion of the man 

They vanish'd, panic-stricken, like a shoal 

Of darting fish, that on a summer morn 

Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot 

Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand. 

But if a n.an who stands upon the brink 

But lift a shining hand against the sun, 

There is not left the twinkle of a flu 

Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower; 

So, scared but at the motion of the man. 

Fled all the boon companions of the Earl, 

And left him lying in the public way ; 

So vanish friendships only made in wine. 

Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint, 
Who saw the chargers of the two that fell 
Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly, 
Mixt with the flyers. "Horse and man,'' he sMid, 
"All of one mind and all right honest friends! 
Not a hoof left : and I, methinks, till now 
Was honest— paid with horses and with arms; 
I cannot steal or plunder, no, nor beg : 
And so what say ye, shall we strip him there, 
Your lover? has your palfrey heart enough 
To bear his armor? shall we fast, or dine? 
No V — then do thou, being right honest, inay 
That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm. 
I too would still be honest." Thus he said : 
And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins. 
And answering not one word, she led the way. 

But as a man to whom a dreadful loss 
Falls iu a far land, and he knows it not. 
But coming back, he learns it, and the loss 
So pains him that he sickens nigh to death ; 
So fared it with Geraint, who being prick'd 
In combat with the follower of Limours, 
Bled underneath his armor secretly. 
And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife, 
What ail'd him, hardly knowing it himself. 
Till his eye darken'd and his helmet wagg'd ; 
And at a sudden swerving of the road, 
Tho' happily down on a bank of grass, 
The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell. 

And Enid heard the clashing of his fall, 
Suddenly came, and at his side all pale 
Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms. 
Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye 
Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound, 
And tearing off her veil of faded silk. 
Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun. 
And swath'd the hurt that drain'd her dear lord'a 

life. 
Then after all was done that hand could do, 
She rested, and her desolation came- 
Upon her, and she wept beside the way. 

And many past, but none regarded her. 
For In that realm of lawless turbulence, 
A woman weeping for her murder'd mate 
Was cared as much for as a summer shower: 
One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm, 
Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him: 
Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, 
Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl ; 
Half whistling and half singing a coarse song, 
He drove the dust against her veilless eyes : 
Another, flying front the wrath of Doorm, 
Before an ever-fancied arrow, made 
The long way smoke beneath him iu his fear; 



172 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



At which her palfrey, whiiiuyiug, lilted heel, 
And scour'd into the coppices and was lost, 
While the great charger stood, grieved like a man. 

But at the point of noon the huge Earl Doorm, 
Broad-faced, with under-fringe of russet beard, 
Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey. 
Came riding with a hundred lances up ; 
But ere he came, like one that hails a ship. 
Cried out with a big voice, "What, is he dead?" 
"No, no, not dead!" she auswer'd iu all haste. 
"Would some of your kind people take him up. 
And bear him hence out of this cruel sun ? 
Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead." 

Then said Earl Doorm: "Well, if he be not dead, 
Why wail ye for him thus? ye seem a child. 
And be he dead, I count you for a fool ; 
Your wailing will not quicken him: dead or not, 
Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears. 
Yet, since the face ?s comely — some of you. 
Here, take him. up, and bear him to our hall : 
And if he live, we will have him of our band ; 
And if he die, why earth has earth enough 
To hide him. See ye take the charger too, 
A noble one." 

He spake, and past away, 
But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced, 
Each growling like a dog, when his good bone 
Seems to be pluck'd at by the village boys, 
Who love to vex him eating, and he fears 
To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it. 
Gnawing and growling : so the ruffians growl'd, 
Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man, 
Their chance of booty from the morning's raid ; 
Yet raised and laid him on a litter-bier. 
Such as they brought upon their forays out 
For those that might be wounded; laid him on it 
All in the hollow of his shield, and took 
And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm 
(His gentle charger following him unled). 
And cast him and the bier on wliich he lay 
Down on aU oaken settle iu the hall. 
And then departed, hot in haste to join 
Their luckier mates, but growling as before. 
And cursing their lost time, and the dead man. 
And their own Earl, and their own souls, and her. 
They might as well have blest her : she was deaf 
To blessing or to cursing save from one. 

So for long hours sat Enid by her lord, 
There in the naked hall, i)ropping his head, 
And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him. 
Till at the last he wakeu'd from his swoon. 
And found his own dear bride propping his head, 
And chating his faint hands, and calling to him ; 
And felt the warm tears falling on his face ; 
And said to his own heart, " She weeps for me :" 
And yet lay still, and feign'd himself as dead. 
That he might prove her to the uttermost, 
And say to his own heart, "She weeps for me." 

But in the falling afternoon return'd 
The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall. 
His lusty spearmen follow'd him with noise: ' 
Each hurling down a heap of things that rang 
Against the pavement, cast his lance aside, 
And doff'd his helm: and then there flntter'd in, 
Half-bold, half-flighted, with dilated eyes, 
A tribe of women, dress'd in many hues, 
And mingled with the spearmen : and Earl Doorm 
Struck Willi a knife's haft hard against the board. 
And call'd for flesh and wine to feed his spears. 
And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves, 
And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh : 
And none spake word, but all sat down at once, 
And ate with tumult in the naked hall. 



Feeding like horses when you hear them feed ; 

Till Euid shrank far back into herself. 

To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe. 

But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would, 

He roU'd his eyes about the hall, and found 

A damsel drooping in a corner of it. 

Then he remember'd her, and how she wept ; 

And out of her there came a power upon him ; 

And rising on the sudden, he said, "Eat! 

I never yet beheld a thing so pale. 

God's curse, it makes me mad to see you weep. 

Eat ! Look yourself. Good luck had your good niau 

For were I dead, who is it would weep for me ? 

Sweet lady, never since I flrst drew breath 

Have I beheld a lily like yourself. 

And so there lived some color iu your cheek, 

There is not one among my gentlewomen 

W'ere fit to wear your slipper for a glove. 

But listen to me, and by me be ruled, 

And I will do the thing I have not done, 

For ye shall share my earldom with me, girl, 

And we will live like two birds iu one nest, 

And I will fetch you forage from all fields, 

For I compel all creatures to my will." 

He spoke : the brawny spearman let his cheefc 
Bulge with the uuswallow'd piece, and turning 

stared ; 
While some, whose souls the old serpent long had 

drawn 
Down, as the worm draws in the wither'd leaf 
And makes it earth, hiss'd each at other's ear 
Wliat shall not be recorded — women they, 
Women, or what had been those gracious things. 
But now desired the humbling of their best. 
Yea, would have help'd him to it: and all at oi/ce 
They hated her, who took no thought of them, 
But auswer'd in low voice, her meek head yet 
Drooping, " I pray you of your courtesy. 
He being as he is, to let me be." 

She spake so low he hardly heard her speak. 
But like a mighty patron, satisfied 
With what himself had done so graciously. 
Assumed that she had thank'd him, adding, " Yea, 
Eat and be glad, for I account you mine." 

She answer'd meekly, "How should I be glad 
Heuceforth in all the world at anything, 
Until my lord arise and look upon me ?" 

Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk, 
As all but empty heart and weariness 
And sickly nothing ; suddenly seized on her, 
And bare her by main violence to the board. 
And thrust the dish before her, crying, "Eat." 

"No, no," said Enid, vest, "I will not eat 
Till yonder man upon the bier arise. 
And eat with me." "Drink, then," he auswer'd. 

" Here !" 
(And fill'd a horn with wine and held it to her,) 
" Lo ! I, myself, when flush'd with fight, or hot, 
God's curse, with anger— often I myself, 
Before I well have drunken, scarce cau eat: 
Drink therefore, and the wine will change your will.'' 

"Not so," she cried, "by Heaven, I will not drink 
Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it, 
And drink with me ; and if he rise no more, 
I will not look at wine until I die." 

At this he turn'd all red and paced his hall, 
Now gnaw'd his under, now his upper lip, 
And coming up close to her, said at last : 
"Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies, 
Take warning : yonder man is surely dead ; 
And I compel all creatures to my will. 



GERAINT AND ENID. 



173 



Not eat uor driuk? Aiul wherefore wail for one, 
Who put your beauty to this flout aud scoru 
Sy dressius; it iu rags ? Amazed am I, 
Beholding how ye butt against my wish, 
That I forbear you thus : cross nie uo more. 
At least put off to please me this poor gown, 
This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed : 
I love that beauty should go beautifully: 
For see ye not my gentlewomen here. 
How gay, how suited to the house of one, 
Who loves that beauty should go beautifully ? 
Rise therefore ; robe yourself iu this : obey." 

He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen 
Display'd a splendid silk of foreign loom, 
VVliere like a shoaling sea the lovely blue 
Play'd into green, and thicker down the front 
With jewels than the sward with drops of dew. 
When all night long a cloud clings to the hill, 
And with the dawn ascending lets the day 
Strike where it clung : so thickly shone the gems. 

But Enid auswer'd, harder to be moved 
Thau hardest tyrants in their day of power, 
With life-long injuries burning unavenged, 
Aud now their hour has come ; and Enid said : 

"In this poor gown my dear lord found me first, 
And loved me serving iu my father's hall : 
In this poor gown I rode with him to court, 
And there the Queen array'd me like the sun : 
In this poor gown he bade me clothe myself, 
When now we rode upon this fatal quest 
Of honor, where no honor can be gain'd : 
And this poor gown I will not cast aside 
Until himself arise a living man, 
And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough: 
Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be : 
I never loved, can never love but him : 
Yea, God, I pray you of your gentleness, 
He being as he is, to let me be." 

Then strode the brute Earl up and down his hall, 
And took his russet beard between his teeth ; 
Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood 
Crying, "I count it of no more avail. 
Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you ; 
Take my salute," unknightly with flat hand. 
However lightly, smote her on the cheek. 

Then Enid, in her utter helplessness, 
And since she thought, " He had not dared to do it. 
Except he surely knew my lord was dead," 
Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry. 
As of a wild thing taken in the trap, 
Which sees the trapper coming thro' the wood. 

This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword 
(It lay beside him in the hollow shield), 
Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it 
Shore thro' the swarthy neck, and like a ball 
The russet-bearded head roll'd on the floor. 
So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead. 
And all the men and women in the hall 
Rose when they saw the dead man rise, aud fled 
Yelling as from a sjiectre, and the two 
Were left alone together, and he said : 

"Enid, I have nsed you worse than that dead 
man ; 
Done you more wrong: we both have undergone 
That trouble which has left me thrice your own : 
Henceforward I will rather die than doubt. 
And here I lay this penance on myself, 
Not, tho' mine own ears heard you yester-morn — 
You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say, 
I heard you say, that you were no true wife : 
I swear I will not ask your meaning in it : 



I do believe yourself against yourself. 

And will henceforward rather die than doubt." 

And Euid could not say one tender word. 
She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart: 
She only pray'd him, " Ply, they will return 
And slay you ; fly, your charger is without. 
My palfrey lost." "Then, Enid, shall you ride 
Behind me." "Yea," said Enid, "let us go." 
And moving out they found the stately horse. 
Who now no more a vassal to the thief. 
But free to stretch his limbs in lawful flght, 
Neigh'd with all gladness as they came, and stoop'd 
With a low whinny toward the pair: and she 
Kiss'd the white star upon his noble front, 
Glad also ; then Geraint. upon the horse 
Mounted, and reach'd a hand and on his foot 
She set her own aud climb'd ; [he turn'd his face 
And kiss'd her climbing, and she cast her arms 
About him, aud at ouce they rode away.j 

And never yet, since high in Paradise 
O'er the four rivers the first roses blew, 
Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind 
Than lived thro' her, who in that perihjus hour 
Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart. 
And felt him hers again : she did not weep. 
But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist 
Like that which kept the heart of Eden green 
Before the useful trouble of the rain : 
Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes 
As not to see before them on the path, 
Right in the gateway of the bandit hold, 
A knight of Arthur's court, who laid his lance 
In rest, and made as if to fall upon him. 
Then, fearing for his hurt aud loss of blood. 
She, with her mind all fall of what had chanced, 
Shriek'd to the stranger, "Slay not a dead man!" 
"The voice of Enid," said the knight; but she. 
Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd, 
Was moved so much the more, and shriek'd again, 
"O cousin, slay not him who gave you life." 
And Edyrn, moving frankly forward, spake: 
" My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love ; 
I took yon for a bandit knight of Doorm ; 
And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him, 
Who love you. Prince, with something of the love 
Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us. 
For once, when I was up so high iu pride 
That I was halfway down the slope to Hell, 
By overthrowing me you threw me higher. 
Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table Round, 
And since I knew this Earl, when I myself 
Was half a bandit in my lawless hour, 
I come, the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm 
(The King is close behind me), bidding him 
Disband himself, and scatter all his powers. 
Submit, and hear the judgment of the King." 

"He hears the judgment of the King of kings," 
Cried the wan Prince ; "and lo, the powers of Doorm 
Are scatter'd," and he pointed to the field, 
Where, huddled here and there on mound aud knoll, 
Were men and women, staring and aghast. 
While some yet fled ; and then he plainlier told 
How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall. 
But when the knight besought him, "Follow me. 
Prince, to the camp, and in the King's own ear 
Speak what has chanced; ye surely have endured 
Strange chances here alone ;" that other flusli'd, 
And hung his head, and halted in reply. 
Fearing the mild face of the blameless King, 
And after madness acted question ask'd : 
Till Edyrn crying, "If ye will not go 
To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you," 
"Enough," he said, "I follow," and they went. 
But Enid in their going had two fears, 
One from the bandit scatter'd in the field. 



174 



GEKAINT AND ENID. 




"He tum'd his thee. 
And IvissM her climbing, and she cast her arms 
Abuut him, and at once they rode away.'* 



And one from Edyrii. Every now and then, 
\\ :ien Edyrii leiu'd his charger at her side, 
She shrank a little. In a hollow land. 
From which old fires have broken, men may fear 
Fresh fire and ruiu. He, perceiving, said : 

"Fair and dear cousin, yon that most had cause 
To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed. 
Yourself were first the bl.imeless cause to make 
My nature's prideful sparkle in the blood 
Break into furious flame ; being repulsed 
By Yniol and yourself, 1 schemed and wrought 
Uutil 1 overturn'd liim; then set up 
(With one main purpose ever at my heart) 
My haughty jousts, and tooli a paramour; 
Did her nioclc-honor as the fairest fair, 
And, toppling over all antagonism. 
So wax'd ill i)ridc, that I believed myself 
Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad: 
And, but for my main purpose in these jousts, 
I should have slain your father, seized yourself. 
I lived in iiope that sometime you would come 
To these my lists with him whom best you loved; 
Aud there, poor cousin, with your meek blue 

eyes, 
The truest eyes that ever answer'd Heaven, 
Behold me overturn and trample on him. 
Then, had you cried, or knelt, or pray'd to me, 
I should not less have kill'd him. And you came — 
But once yon came — and with your own true eyes 
Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one 
Speaks of a service done him) overthrow 
My proud self, and my purpose, three years old, 
And set his foot upon me, and give me life. 
There was I broken down ; there was I saved : 
Tho' thence I rode all-shamed, hating tlie life 
He gave me, meaning to be rid of it. 
And all the penance the Queen laid upon me 
Was but to rest awhile within her court; 
Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged, 
And waiting to be treated like a wolf. 



Because I knew my deeds were known, I found, 

Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn. 

Such fine reserve and noble reticence, 

Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace 

Of lenderest courtesy, that I began 

To glance behind me at my former life, 

And find that it had been the wolf's indeed: 

And oft I talk'd with Uubric, tlie high saiut. 

Who, with mild heat of h<i!y oratory. 

Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness, 

vVhich, when it weds with manhood, makes a man. 

Aud you were often there about the Queen, 

But saw me not, or inark'd not if you saw ; 

Sov did I care or dare to speak with you, 

But kept my-elf aloof till I was changed; 

.\ud fear not, cousin ; I am changed indeed." 

He spoke, and Enid easily believed. 
Like simple noble natures, crednlojis 
i)f what lliey long for, good in friend or foe. 
There most in those who most have done them ill. 
.\nd when they reach'd the camp the King himself 
Advanced to greet them, and beholding her, 
rho' pale, yet happy, aslv'd her not a word, 
But when apart with Edyrn, whom he held 
In converse for a little, and returu'd, 
And gravely smiling, lified lier from horse. 
And kiss'd her with all pureness, brother-like, 
Aud show'd an empty tent allotted her, 
And glancing for a minute, till he saw her 
Pass into it, turu'd to tlie Prince, aud said : 

"Prince, when of late ye pray'd me for my leave 
To move to yuiir own land, and there defend 
Your marches, I was prick'd with some reproof, 
As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be, 
By having look'd too much thio' alien eyes, 
Aud wrought too long with delegated hands. 
Not used mine owu : but now behold me come 
To cleanse this common sewer of all my realm. 
With Edyru and with others: liave ye look'd 



MEKLIN AND VIVIEN. 



175 



At Edyrn? have ye seen how nobly changed? 

This wmk of his is E^reat and wonderful. 

His very face with change of heait is changed. 

The world will not believe a man repents ; 

And this wise world of ours is mainly right. 

Full seldom doth a man repent, or use 

Both grace and will to pick the vicious quitch 

Of blood and custom wholly out of him, 

And make all clean, and plaut himself afresh. 

Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart, 

As I will weed this land before I go. 

I, therefore, made him of our Table Round, 

Not rashly, but have proved him everyway 

One of our noblest, our most valorous, 

Sanest, and most obedient: and indeed 

This work of Edyrn, wrought upon himself 

After a life of violence, seems to me 

A thousand-fold more great and wonderful 

Than if some knight of mine, risking his life. 

My subject with my subjects under him. 

Should make an onslaught single on a realm 

Of robbers, tho' he slew them one by one, 

Aud were himself nigh wounded to the death." 

So spake the King ; low bow'd the Prince, and felt 
His work was neither great nor wonderful, 
And past to Enid's tout; and thither came 
The King's own leech to look into his hurt ; 
And Enid tended on him there ; and there 
Her constant motion round him, and the breath 
Of her sweet tendance hovering over him, 
Fill'd all the genial courses of his blood 
With deeper aud with ever deeper love. 
As the southwest that, blowing Bala lake, 
Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days. 

But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt. 
The blameless King went forth and cast his eyes 
Ou each of all whom Uther left in charge 
Long since, to guard the justice of the King: 
He look'd and found them wanting ; and as now 
Men weed the white horse on the Berkshire hills. 
To keep him bright and clean as heretofore, 
He rooted out the slothful officer 
Or guilty, which for bribe had wink'd at wrong, 
And in their chairs set up a stronger race, 
With hearts and hands, aud sent a thousand meu 
To till the wastes, and moving everywhere, 
Clear'd the dark places and let in the law, 
Ajid broke the bandit holds aud cleansed the land 

Then, when Geraint was whole again, they past 
With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. 
There the great Queen ouce more embraced hei 

friend. 
And clothed her in apparel like the day. 
Aud tho' Geraint could never take again 
That comfort from their converse which he took 
Before the Queen's fair name was breathed upon, 
He rested well content that all was well. 
Thence, after tarrying for a space, they rode. 
And fifty knights rode with them to the shores 
Of Severn, and they past to their own laud. 
And there he kept the justice of the King 
So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts 
Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died : 
Aud being ever foremost in the chase, 
And victor at the tilt and tournament, 
They call'd him the great Prince and man of men^ 
But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call 
Enid the Fair, a grateful people named 
Enid the Good; aud in their halls arose 
The cry of children, Enids and Geraiuts 
Of times to be ; nor did he doubt her more, 
But rested in her fealty, till he crown'd 
A happy life with a fair death, and fell 
Against the heathen of the Northern Sea 
lu battle, fightiug for the blameless King. 
12 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 

A 8TOKM was coming, but the winds were still. 
And in the wild woods of Broceliande, 
Before an oak, so hollow, huge, and old, 
It look'd a tower of ruin'd masonwork. 
At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay. 

Whence came she? One that bare in bitter grudge 
The scorn of Arthur and his Table, Mark 
The Cornish king, had heard a wandering voice, 
A minstrel of Caerleon by strong storm 
Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say 
That out of naked knightlike purity 
Sir Lancelot worshipt no unmarried girl 
But the great Queen herself, fought in her name, 
Sware by her— vows like theirs, that high in heaven 
Love most, but neither marry, nor are given 
In marriage, angels of our Lord's report. 

He ceased, and then — for Vivien sweetly said 
(She sat beside the banquet nearest Mark), 
"And is the fair example foUow'd, Sir, 
In Arthur's household?" — answer'd innocently: 

"Ay, by some few— ay, truly— youths that hold 
It more beseems the perfect virgin knight 
To worship woman as true wife beyond 
All hopes of gaining, than as maiden girl. 
They place their pride in Lancelot aud the Queen. 
So passionate for an utter purity 
Beyond the limit of their bond, are these. 
For Arthur bound them not to singleness. 
Brave hearts aud clean ! and yet— God guide them— 
young." 

Then Mark was half in heart to hurl his cup 
Straight at the speaker, but forbore: he rose 
To leave the hall, aud, Vivien following him, 
Turu'd to her: "Here are snakes within the grass; 
Aud you niethinks, O Vivien, save ye fear 
The monkish manhood, and the mask of pure 
Worn by this court, cau stir them till they sting." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling scornfully, 
'Why fear? because that foster'd at thy court 
I savor of thy — virtues? fear them? no. 
As Love, if Love be perfect, casts out fear. 
So Hate, if Hate be perfect, casts out fear. 
My father died in battle against the King, 
My mother on his corpse in open field ; 
She bore me there, for born from death was I 
Among the dead and sown upon the wind — 
And then on thee ! and shown the truth betimes. 
That old true filth, and bottom of the well, 
Where Truth is hidden. Gracious lessons thine 
And maxims of the mud! 'This Arthur pure! 
Great Nature thro' the flesh herself hath made 
Gives him the lie ! There is no being pure. 
My cherub; saith not Holy Writ the same?' — 
If I were Arthur, I would have thy blood. 
Thy blessing, stainless King '. I bring thee back, 
When I have ferreted out their burrowings. 
The hearts of all this Order in mine hand — 
Ay — so that fate aud craft and folly close, 
Perchance, one curl of ArXhur's golden beard. 
To me this narrow grizzled fork of thine 
Is cleauer-fashion'd — Well, I loved thee first, 
That warps the wit." 

Loud Inugh'd the graceless Mark. 
But Vivien, into Camelot stealing, lodged 
Low in the city, aud on a festal day 
When Guinevere was crossing the great hall 
Cast herself down, kuelt to the Queen, aud wail'd. 



176 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



"Why kneel ye there? What evil have ye wrought? 
Rise!" and the damsel bidden rise arose 
And stood -with folded hands and downward eyes 
Of glancing corner, and all meel<ly said, 
"None wrought, but suffer'd much, an orphan maid! 
My father died in battle for thy King, 
My mother on his corpse — in open field, 
The sad sea-sounding wastes of Lyonnesse — 
Poor wretch— no friend ! — and now by Mark the king 
For that small charm of feature mine, pursued— 
If any such be mine— I fly to thee. 
Save, save me thou — Woman of women — thine 
The wreath of beauty, thine the crown of power, 
Be thine the balm of pity, O Heaven's own white 
Earth-augcl, stainless bride of stainless King- 
Help, for he follows! take me to thyself! 

yield me shelter for mine iuuocency 
Among thy maidens !" 

Here her slow sweet eyes 
Fear-tremulous, but humbly hopeful, rose 
Fixt on her hearer's, while the Queen who stood 
All glittering like May sunshine on May leaves 
In green and gold, and plumed with green, replied, 
" Peace, child ! of overpraise and overblame 
We choose the last. Our noble Arthur, him 
Ye scarce can overpraise, will hear and know. 
Nay— we believe all evil of thy Mark- 
Well, we shall test thee farther; but this hour 
We ride a-hawking witli Sir Lancelot. 
He hath given u.s a fair falcon which he train'd; 
We go to prove it. Bide ye here the while." 

She past; and Vivien murmur'd after "Go! 

1 bide the while." Then thro' the portal-arch 
Peering askance, and muttering broken-wise, 
As one that labors with an evil dream. 
Beheld the Queen and Lancelot get to horse. 

"Is that the Lancelot? good'y— ay. '>"<■ gmmt: 
Courteous— amends for gauutness — takes her liand — 
That glauce of theirs, but for the street, had beeu 
A clinging kiss — how hand lingers in hand! 
Let go at last!— they ride away — to hawk 
For waterfowl. Royaller game is mine. 
For such a supersensual sensual bond 
As that gray cricket cliirpt of at our hearth — 
Touch flax with flame— a glance will serve— the liars 1 
Ah little rat that borest in the dyke 
Thy hole by night to let the boundless deep 
Down upon far-off cities while they dance — 
Or dream— of thee they dream'd not — nor of me 
These — ay, but each of either : ride, and dream 
The mortal dream that never yet was miiie^ 
Ride, ride and dream until ye wake— to me ! 
Then, narrow court and lubber King, farewell ! 
For Lancelot \y\\\ be gracious to the rat, 
And our wise Queen, if knowing that I know. 
Will hate, loathe, fear — but honor raa the more." 

Yet while they rode together down the plain, 
Their talk was all of training, terms of art, 
Diet and seeling, jesses, leash, and lure. 
"She is too n(>l)le," he said, "to check at pies. 
Nor will she rake: there is no baseness in her." 
Here when the Queen demanded as by chance, 
"Know ye the stranger woman?" "Let her be," 
Said Lancelot and unhooded casting off 
The goodly falcon free; she tower'd ; her bells, 
Tone under tone, shriil'd ; and they lifted up 
Their eager faces, wondering at the strength, 
Boldness and royal knighthood of the bird 
Who pounced her quarry and slew it. Many a time 
As once — of old — among the tlowers they rode. 

But Vivien half-forgotten of the Queen 
Among her damsels broidering sat, heard, watch'd 
And whisper'd: thro' the peaceful court she crept 



And whisper'd: then as Arthur in the highest 
Leaven'd the world, so Vivien in the lowest, 
Ariiving at a time of golden rest. 
And sowing one ill hint from ear to ear. 
While all the heathen lay at Arthur's feet, 
And no quest came, but all was joust and play, 
Leaven'd his hall. They heard and let her be. 

Thereafter as an enemy that has left 
Death in the living waters, and withdrawn, 
The wily Vivien stole from Arthur's court. 

She hated all the knights, and heard in thought 
Their lavish comment when her n;mie was named. 
For once, when Arthur, walking all alone, 
Vext at a rumor issued from herself 
Of some corruption crept among his knights, 
Had met her, Vivien, being greeted fair, 
Would fain have wrought upon his cloudy mood 
With reverent eyes mock-loyal, shaken voice. 
And flutter'd adoration, and at last 
With dark sweet hints of some who prized him more 
Than who should prize him most; at which the King 
Had gazed upon her blankly and gone by: 
But one had watch'd, and had not held his peace: 
It made the laughter of an afternoon 
That Vivien should attempt the blameless King. 
And after that she set herself to gain 
Him, the most famous man of all those times, 
Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts, 
Had built the King his havens, ships, and halls, 
Was also Bard, and knew the starry heavens ; 
The people call'd him Wizard ; whom at first 
She play'd about with slight and sprightly talk, 
And vivid smiles, and faintly venom'd points 
Of slander, glancing here and grazing there ; 
And yielding to his kindlier moods, the Seer 
Would watch her at her netulauce, and play, 
Ev'n when they seem'd nulovable, and laugh 
^s those that watcli a kitten; thus he grew 
Tolerant of what he half disdaiu'd, and she. 
Perceiving that she was but half disdaiu'd, 
Began to bieak her sports with graver fits. 
Turn red or pale, wonld often when they met 
Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him 
With such a flxt devotion, that the old man, 
Tho' donbtful, felt the flattery, and at times 
Would flatter his own wish in age for love. 
And half believe her true: for thus at times 
He waver'd ; but that other clung to him, 
Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went. 

Then foil on Merlin a great melancholy; 
He walk'd with dreams and darkness, and he found 
A doom that ever poised itself to fall. 
An ever-moaning battle in the mist, 
World-war of dying flesh against the life. 
Death in all life and lying in all lovo. 
The meanest having power upon the highest, 
And the high purpose broken by the worm. 

So leaving Arthur's court he gain'd the beach ; 
There found a little boat, and stept into it; 
And Vivien follow'd, but he mark'd her not. 
She took the helm and he the sail ; the boat 
Drave with a sudden wind across the deeps. 
And touching Breton sands, they disembark'd. 
And then she follow'd Merlin all the way, 
Ev'n to the wild woods of Broceliande. 
For Merlin once had told her of a charm. 
The which if any wrought on anyone 
With woven paces and with waving arms, 
The man so wrought on ever seem'd to lie 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower. 
From which was no escape f(H' evermore ; 
And none could find that man for evermore. 
Nor could he see but him who wrought the charm 
Coming and going, and he lay as dead 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



177 



And lost to life and use and name and fiiine. 
And Vivien ever 6ouj;ht to work the chai'm 
Upon the great Enchanter of the Time, 
As fancying that her glorj' would be great 
According to his greatness whom she qiiench'd. 

There lay she all her length and kiss'd his feet, 
As if in deepest reverence and in love. 
A twist of gold was round her hair ; a robe 
Of samite without price, that more exprest 
Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs, 
In color like the satin-shining palm 
On sallows in the windy gleams of March : 
And while she kiss'd them, crying, "Trample me. 
Dear feet, that I have follow'd thro' the world. 
And I will pay yon worship ; tread me down 
And I will kiss you for it;" he was mute: 
So dark a forethought roll'd about his brain, 
As on a dull day in an ocean cave 
The blind wave feeling round his long sea-hall 
In silence : wherefore, when she lifted up 
A face of sad appeal, and spake and said, 
" O Merlin, do ye love me ?" and again, 
"O Merlin, do ye love nie?" and once more, 
" Great Master, do ye love me ?" he was mute. 
And lissome Vivien, holding by his heel, 
Writhed toward him, slided up his knee and sat, 
Behind his ankle twined her hollow feet 
Together, curved an arm about his neck. 
Clung like a snake ; and letting her left hand 
Droop from his mighty shoulder, as a leaf. 
Made with her right a comb of pearl to part 
The lists of such a beard as youth gone out 
Had left in ashes : then he spoke and said, 
Not looking at her, " Who are wise in love 
Love most, say least," and Vivien answer'd quick, 
" I saw the little elf-god eyeless once 
In Arthur's arras hall at Camelot: 
But neither arms nor tongue— O stupid child I 
Yet you are wise who say it ; let me think 
Silence is wisdom ; I am silent then, 
And ask uo kiss;" then adding all at once, 
"And lo ! I clothe myself with wisdom," dieYl 
The vast and shaggy mantle of his beard 
Across her neck and bosom to her knee. 
And call'd herself a gilded summer fly 
Caught in a great old tyrant spider's web. 
Who meant to eat her nj) in that wild wood 
Without one word. So Vivien call'd herself. 
But rather seem'd a lovely baleful star 
Veil'd in gray vapor; till he sadly smiled: 
" To what request for what strange boon," he said, 
"Are these yonr pretty tricks and fooleries, 

Vivien, the preamble? yet my thanks. 
For these have broken up ray melancholy." 

And Vivien answered, smiling saucily, 
"What, O my Master, have ye found your voice? 

1 bid the stranger welcome. Thanks at last ! 
But yesterday you never open'd lip, 
Except indeed to drink: no cup had we: 

In mine own lady palms I ciill'd the spring 
That gather'd trickling drop wise from the cleft, 
And made a pretty cup of both my hands 
And ofifer'd you it kneeling : then you drank 
And knew no more, nor gave me one poor word ; 
Oh, no more thanks than might a goat have given 
With no more sign of reverence than a beard. 
And when we halted at that other well, 
And I was faint to swooning, and you lay 
Foot-gilt with all the blossom-dust of those 
Deep meadows we had traversed, did you know 
•That Vivien bathed your feet before her own ? 
And yet no thanks : and all thro' this wild wood 
And all this morning when I fondled you : 
Boon, ay, there was a boon, one not so strange — 
How had I wrong'd you? surely ye are wise, 
But such a silence is more wise than kind." 



And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers and said: 
"Oh, did ye never lie upon the shore, 
And watch the curl'd white of the coming wave 
Glass'd in the slippery sand before it breaks? 
Ev'n such a wave, but not so pleasurable, 
Dark in the glass of some presagefiil mood, 
Had I for three days seen, ready to fall. 
And then I rose and fled from Arthur's court 
To break the mood. Yon follow'd me nnask'd : 
And when I look'd, and saw you following still. 
My mind involved yourself the nearest thing 
In that mind-mist : for shall I tell you truth ? 
You seem'd that wave about to break upon me 
And sweep me from my hold npon the world. 
My use and name and fame. Your pardon, child. 
Your pretty sports have brighten'd all again. 
And ask your boon, for boon I owe you thrice, 
Once for wrong done you by confusion, next 
For thanks it seems till now neglected, last 
For these your dainty gambols: wherefore ask; 
And take this boon so strange and not so strange.'' 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling mournfully: 
" Oh, not so strange as my long asking it, 
Nor yet so strange as you yourself are strange, 
Nor half so strange as that dark mood of yours. 
I ever fear'd ye were not wholly mine ; 
And see, yourself have own'd ye did me wrong. 
The people call you prophet : let it be : 
But not of those that can exp(nind themselves. 
Take Vivien for expounder ; she will call 
That three-days-long presagefnl gloom of yours 
No presage, but the same mistrustful mood 
That makes you seem less noble than yourself, 
Whenever I have ask'd this very boon, 
Now ask'd again : for see you not, dear love, 
That such a mood as that, which lately gloom'd 
Your fancy when ye saw me following you. 
Must make me fear still more you are not mine. 
Must make me yearn still more to prove you mine, 
And make me wish still more to learn this charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands, 
As proof of trust. O Merlin, teach it me. 
The charm so taught will charm us both to rest. 
For, grant nie some slight power upon your fate, 
I, feeling that you felt me worthy trust. 
Should rest and let you rest, knowing you mine. 
And therefore be as great as ye are named. 
Not muflled round with seltish reticence. 
How hard you look, and how denyingly! 
Oh, if you think this wickedness in me, 
That I should prove it on you unawares, 
That makes me passing wrathful ; then our bond 
Had best be loosed for ever : but think or not. 
By Heaven that hears I tell you the clean truth. 
As clean as blood of babes, as white as milk : 
O Merlin, may this earth, if ever I, 
If these unwitty wandering wits of mine, 
Ev'n in the jumbled rubbish of a dream. 
Have tript on such conjectural treachery — 
May this hard earth cleave to the Nadir hell, 
Down, down, and close again, and nip me flat, 
If I be such a traitress. Yield my boon. 
Till which I scarce can yield you all I am ; 
And grant my re-reiterated wish, 
The great proof of your love: because I think, 
However wise, ye hardly know me yet." 

And Merlin loosed his hand from hers and said, 
"I never was less wise, however wise, 
Too curious Vivien, tho' you talk of trust. 
Than when I told you first of such a charm. 
Yea, if ye talk of trust I tell yon this. 
Too much I trusted when I told you that, 
And stirr'd this vice in you which rnin'd man 
Thro' woman the first hour; for howsoe'er 
In children a great curionsness be well, 
Who have to learn themselves and all the world. 



178 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



lu you, that are no child, for still I fiud 
Your face is practised wheu I spell the lines 
I call it — well, I will not call it vice : 
But since you name yourself the summer fly, 
I well could wish a cobweb for the sjuat. 
That settles beaten back, and beaten back 
Settles, till one could yield for weariness: 
But since I will not yield to give you power 
Upon my life and use and name and fame, 
Why will ye never ask some other boon ? 
Yea, by God's rood, I trusted you too much." 

And Vivien, like the tenderest-hearted maid 
That ever bided tryst at village stile. 
Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears: 
"Nay, Master, be not wrathful with your maid; 
Caress her: let her feel herself forgiven 
Who feels no heart to ask another boon. 
I think ye hardly know the tender rhyme 
Of 'trust me not at all or all in all.' 
I heard the gi;eat Sir Lancelot sing it once, 
And it shall answer for me. Listen to it. 

"'In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, 
Faith and uiifaith can ne'er be equal powers: 
Uufaith iu aught is want of faith in all. 

'"It is the little rift within the lute, 
That by and by will make the music mute, 
And ever widening slowly silence all. 

"'The little rift within the lover's lute 
Or little pitted speck iu garner'd fruit. 
That rotting inward, slowly moulders all. 

"'It is not worth the keeping: let it go: 
But shall it ? answer, darling, answer, no. 
And trust me not at all or all iu all.' 

"O Master, do ye love my tender rhyme?" 

And Merlin look'd and half believed her true. 
So tender was her voice, so fair her face, 
So sweetly gleam'd her eyes behind her lears 
Like sunlight on the plain behind a shower: 
And yet he auswer'd half indignantly : 

"Far other was the song that once 1 heard 
By this huge oak, sung nearly where we sit : 
For here we met, some ten or twelve of us. 
To chase a creature that was current then 
In these wild woods, the hart with golden horns. 
It was the time when tirst the question rose 
About the founding of a Table Round, 
That was to be, for love of God and men 
And noble deeds, the flower of all the world. 
And each incited each to noble deeds. 
And while we waited, one, the youngest of us, 
We could not keep him silent, out he flash'd, 
And into such a song, such fire for fame. 
Such trumpet-blowings in it, coming down 
To such a stern and iron-clashing close. 
That when he stopt we long'd to hurl together. 
And should have done it ; but the beauteous beast, 
Scared by the noise, upstarted at our feet, 
And like a silver shadow slipt away 
Thro' the dim land ; and all day long we rode 
Thro' the dim land against a rushing wind, 
That glorious roundel echoing in our ears. 
And chased the flashes of his golden horns 
LTntil they vanish'd by the fairy well 
That laughs at iron— as our warriors did — 
Where children cast their pins and nails, and cry, 
'Laugh, little well!" but touch it with a sword. 
It buzzes fiercely round the point ; and there 
We lost him : such a noble song was that. 
But, Vivien, wheu you sang me that sweet rhyme, 
I felt as though you knew this cursed charm. 



Were proving it on me, and that I lay 

And felt them slowly ebbing name and fame." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling mournfully: 
"Oh, mine have ebb'd away for evermore. 
And all thro' following you to this wild wood, 
Because I saw you sad, to comfort you. 
Lo now, what hearts have men '. they never mouut 
As high as woman in her .selfless mood. 
And touching fame, howe'er ye scorn my song. 
Take one verse more— the lady speaks it — this : 

'"My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier 

mine. 
For fame, could fame be mine, that fame were thine, 
And shame, could shame be thine, that shame were 

mine. 
So trust me not at all or all in all.' 

"Says she not well ? and there is more— this rhyme 
Is like the fair pearl-necklace of the Queen, 
That burst iu dancing, and the pearls were spilt; 
Some lost, some stolen, some as relics kept. 
But nevermore the same two sister pearls 
Ran down the silken thread to kiss each other 
On her white neck— so is it with this rhyme: 
It lives dispersedly in many hands. 
And every minstrel sings it diff'erentiy; 
Yet is there one true line, the pearl of pearls : 
'Man dreams of Fame while woman wakes to love,' 
Yea ! Love, tho' Love were of the grossest, carves 
A portion from the solid present, eats 
And uses, careless of the rest ; but Fame, 
The Fame that follows death is nothing to us ; 
And what is Fame iu life but half-disfame, 
And counterchanged with darkness ? ye yourself 
Know well that Envy calls you Devil's sou, 
And since ye seem the Master of all Art, 
They fain would make you Master of all vice." 

And Merlin lock'd his hand in hers and said, 
"I once was looking for a magic weed. 
And found a fair young squire who sat alone. 
Had carved himself a knightly shield of wood. 
And then was painting on it fancied arms, 
Azure, an Eagle rising, or the Sun 
In dexter chief; the scroll, 'I follow fame.' 
And speaking not, but leaning over him, 
I took the brush and blotted out the bird, 
And made a Gardener putting in a graff. 
With this for motto, 'Rather use than fame.' 
You should have seen him blush ; but afterwards 
He made a stalwart knight. Oh, Vivien, 
For you, methinks you think you love me well; 
For me, I love you somewhat; rest: and Love 
Should have some rest and pleasure in himself, 
Not ever be too curious for a boon. 
Too prurient for a proof against the grain 
Of him ye say ye love: but Fame with men, 
Being but ampler means to serve mankind. 
Should have small rest or pleasure in herself, 
But work as vassal to the larger love. 
That dwarfs the petty love of one to one. 
Use gave me Fame at first, and Fame again 
Increasing gave me use. Lo, there my boon ! 
What other ? for men sought to prove me vile, 
Because I fain had given them greater wits: 
And then did Envy call me Devil's son: 
The sick weak beast, seeking to help herself 
By striking at her better, miss'd, and brought 
Her own claw back, and wounded her own heart. 
Sweet were the days when I was all unknown. 
But when my name was lifted up, the storm 
Brake on the mountain and I caied not for it. 
Right well know I that fame is half-disfame. 
Yet needs must work my work. That other fame, 
To one at least, who hath not children, vague, 
The cackle of the unborn about the grave, 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



17'J 



I cared not for it: a single misty star, 

Which is the second in a line of stars 

That seem a sword beneath a belt of three, 

I never gazed upon it but I dreamt 

Of some vast charm concluded in that star 

To make fame nothing. Wherefore, if I fear. 

Giving you power upon me thro' this charm. 

That you might play me falsely, having power, 

However well ye think ye love me now 

<A8 sons of kings loving in pupilage 

Have tnrn'd to tyrants when they came to power), 

I rather dread the loss of use than fame ; 

If you — and not so much from wickedness, 

As some wild turn of anger, or a mood 

Of overstraiu'd affection, it may l)e. 

To keep me all to your own self— or else 

A sudden spurt of woman's jealousy — 

Should try this charm on whom ye say ye love." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling as in wrath : 
"Have I not sworn? I am not trusted. Good! 
Well, hide it, hide it; I shall find it out; 
And being found, take heed of Vivien. 
A woman, and not trusted, doubtless I 
Might feel some sudden turn of anger born 
Of your misfaith ; and yonr fine epithet 
Is accurate too, for this full love of mine 
Without the full heart back may merit well 
Your term of ovcrstrain'd. So used as I, 
My daily wonder is, I love at all. 
And as to woman's jealousy, oh, why not ? 
Oh, to what end, except a jealous one. 
And one to make me jealous if I love. 
Was this fair charm invented by yourself? 
I well believe that all about this world 
Ye cage a buxom captive here and there. 
Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower 
From which is uo escape for evermore." 

Then the great Master merrily answer'd her : 
"Full many a love in loving youth was mine; 
I needed then no charm to keep them mine 
But youth and love ; and that full heart of yours 
Whereof ye prattle, may now assure you mine ; 
So live nucharm'd. For those who wrought it first 
The wrist is parted from the hand that waved, 
The feet unmortised from their ankle-bones 
Who paced it, ages back: but will ye hear 
The legend as in guerdon for your rhyme ? 

"There lived a king in the most Eastern East, 
Less old than I, yet older, for my blood 
Hath earnest in it of far springs to be. 
A tawny pirate anchor'd in his port. 
Whose bark had plunder'd twenty nameless isles ; 
And passing one, at the high peep oi dawn, 
He saw two cities in a thousand boats 
All lighting for a woman on the sea. 
And pushing his black craft among them all. 
He lightly scatter'd theirs and brought her off. 
With loss of half his people arrow-slain ; 
A maid so smooth, so white, so wonderful. 
They said a light came from her wheu she moved: 
And since the pirate would not yield her up. 
The King impaled him for his piracy ; 
Then made her Queen : but those isle-nurtured eyes 
Waged such unwilling tho' successful war 
On all the youth : they sicken'd ; councils thinn'd. 
And armies waned, for, magnet-like, she drew 
The rustiest iron of old fighters' hearts ; 
And beasts themselves would worship; camels knelt 
Unbidden, and the brutes of mountain back 
That carry kings in castles, bow'd black knees 
Of homage, ringing with their serpent hands, 
To make her smile, her golden ankle-bells. 
What wonder, being jealous, that he sent 
His horns of proclamation out thro' all 
The hundred under-kingdoms that he sway'd 



To find a wizard who might teach the King 

Some charm, which being wrought upon the Queen, 

Might keep her all his own : to such a one 

He promised more than ever king has given, 

A league of mountain full of golden mines, 

A province with a hundred miles of coast, 

A palace and a princess, all for him: 

But on all those who tried and fail'd, the King 

Pronounced a dismal sentence, meaning by it 

To keep the list low and pretenders back. 

Or like a king, not to be trifled with — 

Their heads should moulder on the city gates. 

And many tried and fail'd, because the charm 

Of nature in her overbore their own : 

And many a wizard brow bleach'd on the walls: 

And many weeks a troop of carrion crows 

Hung like a cloud above the gateway towers." 

And Vivien, breaking in upon him, said : 
"I sit and gather honey; yet, methinks, 
Thy tongue has tript a little : ask thyself. 
The lady never made unxoilUng war 
With those fine eyes: she had her pleasure in it. 
And made her good man jealous with good cause. 
And lived there neither dame nor damsel then 
Wroth at a lover's loss? were all as tame, 
I mean, as noble, as their Queen was fair ? 
Not one to flirt a venom at her eyes. 
Or pinch a murderous dust into her drink. 
Or make her paler with a poison'd rose ? 
Well, those were not our days: but did they flni 
A wizard? Tell me, was he like to thee?" 

She ceased, and made her lithe arm round his 
neck 
Tighten, and then drew back, and let her eyes 
Speak for her, glowing on him, like a bride's 
On her new lord, her own, the first of men. 

He answer'd, laughing, "Nay, not like to me. 
At last they found — his foragers for charms — 
A little glassy-headed, hnirless man, 
Who lived alone in a great wild on grass; 
Read but one book, and ever reading, grew 
So grated down and filed away with thought, 
So lean his eyes were monstrous; while the skin 
Clung but to crate and basket, ribs and spine. 
And since he kept his mind on one sole aim. 
Nor ever touch "d fierce wine, nor tasted flesh, 
Nor own'd a sensual wish, to him the wall 
That sunders ghosts and shadow-casting men 
Became a crystal, and he saw them thro' it. 
And heard their voices talk behind the wall, 
And learnt their elemental secrets, powers. 
And forces; often o'er the sun's bright eye 
Drew the vast eyelid of an inky cloud. 
And lash'd it at the base with slanting storm ; 
Or in the noon of mist and driving rain. 
When the lake whiten'd and the pinewood roar'd, 
And the cairn'd mountain was a shadow, sunn'd 
The world to peace again : here was the man. 
And so by force they dragg'd him to the King. 
And then he taught the King to charm the Queen 
In such-wise, that no man could see her more. 
Nor saw she save the King, who wrought thu 

charm 
Coming and going, and she lay as dead, 
And lost all use of life ; but when the King . 
Made proffer of the league of golden mines. 
The province with a hundred miles of coast, 
The palace and the princess, that old man 
Went back to his old wild, and lived on grass. 
And vanish'd, and his book came down to me." 

And Vivien answer'd, smiling saucily: 
"Ye have the book: the charm is written in it: 
Good : take my counsel : let me know it at ouce : 
For keep it like a puzzle, chest in chest. 



180 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



With each chest lock'd and padlock'd thirty-fold, 

And whehn all this beneath as vast a mound 

As after furious battle turfs the slaiu 

Ou some wild down above the windy deep, 

I yet should strike upon a sudden means 

To dii;, pick, open, find, and read the charm : 

Then, if I tried it, who should blame me then ?" 

And smiling, as a master smiles at one 
That is not of his school, nor any school 
But that where blind and naked Ignorance 
Delivers brawling judgments, unashamed. 
On all things all day long, he auswer'd bar : 

"Thou read the book, ray pretty Vivien! 
Oh ay, it is but twenty pages long, 
But every page having an ample marge, 
And every marge enclosing in the midst 
A square of text that looks a little blot. 
The text no larger than the limbs of fleas; 
And every square of text an awful charm, 
Writ in a language that has long gone by. 
So long, that mountains have arisen since 
With cities on their fl^mks — thou read the book ! 
And every margin scribbled, crost, and cramm'd 
With comment, densest condensation, hard 
To mind and eye ; but the long sleepless nights 
Of my long life have made it easy to me. 
And none cau read the text, not even I; 
And none can read the comment but myself; 
And in the comment did I find the charm. 
Oh, the results are simple ; a mere child 
Might nse it to the harm of anyone, 
And never could undo it: ask no more: 
For tho' you should not prove it upon me. 
But keep that oath ye sware, ye might, perchance, 
Assay it on some one of the Table Round, 
And all because ye dream they babble of you." 

And Vivien, frowning in true anger, said: 
"What dare the full-fed liars say of me? 
They ride abroad redressing human wrongs ! 
They sit with knife in meat and wine iu horn. 
They bound to holy vows of chastity ! 
Were I not woman, I could tell a tale. 
But you are man, you well can understand 
The shame that cannot be explain'd for shame. 
Not cue of all the drove should touch me : swine !' 

Then answer'd Merlin, careless of her words: 
"You breathe but accusation vast and vague. 
Spleen-born, I think, and proofless. If ye know. 
Set up the charge ye know, to stand or fall 1" 

And Vivien answer'd, frowning wrathfuUy: 
"Oh ay, what say ye to Sir Valence, him 
Whose kinsman left him watcher o'er his wife 
And two fair babes, and went to distant lands, 
Was one year gone, and on returning found 
Not two but three? there lay the reckling, one 
But one hour old ! What said the happy sire? 
A seven-months' babe had been a truer gift. 
Those twelve sweet moons confused his fatherhood.' 

Then answer'd Merlin, "Nay, I know the tale. 
Sir Valence wedded with an outlaud dame : 
Some cause had kept him sunder'd from his wife: 
One child they had: it lived with her: she died: 
His kinsman traveling on his own affair, 
Was charged by Valence to bring home the child. 
He brought, not found it therefore : take the truth.' 

"Oh ay," said Vivien, "overtrue a tale. 
What say ye then to sweet Sir Sagramore, 
That ardent man? 'to pluck the flower in season,' 
So says the song, 'I trow it is no treason.' 
O Master, shall we call him overquick 
To crop bis own sweet rose before the hour?" 



And Merlin answer'd, "Overquick art thou 
To catch a loathly plume fall'n from the wing 
Of that foul bird of rapine whose whole prey 
Is man's good name : he never wrong'd his bride. 
I know the tale. An angry gust of wind 
Puff'd out his torch among the myriad-rooni'd 
And mauy-corridor'd complexities 
Of Arthur's palace: then he found a door. 
And darkling felt the sculptured ornament 
That wreathen round it, made it seem his own : 
Aud wearied out, made for the conch and slept, 
A stainless man beside a stainless maid ; 
And either slept, nor knew of other there ; 
Till the high dawn, piercing the royal rose 
In Arthur's casement, glimraer'd chastely down, 
Blushing upon them blushing, and at once 
He rose without a word and parted from her: 
But when the thing was blazed about the court, 
The brute world howling forced them into bonds, 
And as it chanced, they are happy, being pure." 

"Oh ay," said Vivien, "that were likely too. 
What say ye then to fair Sir Percivale, 
Aud of the horrid fouluess that he wrought, 
The saintly youth, the spotless lamb of Christ, 
Or some black wether of St. Satan's fold. 
What, in the precincts of the chapel-yard. 
Among the knightly brasses of the graves, 
Aud by the cold Hie Jacets of the dead !" 

And Merlin answer'd, careless of her charge, 
"A sober man is Percivale aud pure; 
But once in life was fluster'd with new wine, 
Then paced for coolness in the chapcl-yard ; 
Where one of Satan's shepherdesses caught 
And meant to stamp him with her master's mark: 
And that he sinn'd is not believable; 
For, look upon his face ! — but if he sinn'd. 
The sin that practice burus into the blood. 
And not the one dark hour which brings remorse, 
Will brand us, after, of whose fold we be : 
Or else were he, the holy king, whose hymns 
Are chanted in the minster, worse than all. 
But is your spleen froth'd out, or have ye more?" 

And Vivien answer'd, frowning yet in wrath; 
"Oh ay; what say ye to Sir Lancelot, friend? 
Traitor or true ? that commerce with the Queen, 
I ask you, is it clamor'd by the child. 
Or whisper'd iu the corner? do ye know it?" 

To which he answer'd sadly, "Yea, I know it. 
Sir Lancelot went ambassador, at flrst, 
To fetch her, and she watch'd him from her walls. 
A rumor runs, she took him for the King, 
So flxt her fancy ou him : let them be. 
But have ye no one word of loyal praise 
For Arthur, blameless King and stainless man ?" 

She answer'd with a low and chuckling laugh : 
"Maul is he man at all, who knows and winks? 
Sees what his fair bride is and does, and winks? 
By which the good King means to blind himself 
And blinds himself and all the Table Round 
To all the foulness that they work. Myself 
Could call him (were it not for womanhood) 
The pretty, popular name such manhood earns. 
Could call him the main cause of all their crime ; 
Yea, were he not crown'd King, coward, aud fool." 

Then Merlin to his own heart, loathing, said: 
"O true and tender I O my liege and King! 
O selfless man and stainless gentleman, 
Who wouldst against thine own eye-witness fain 
Have all men true and leal, all women pure ; 
How, in the mouths of base interpreters. 
From over-fineness not intelligible 
To things with every sense as false and foul 



MERLIN AND VIVIEN. 



181 



As the poach'd tilth that floods the iiitddle street, 
Is thy white blamelessuess accounted blame 1" 

But Vivieu, deeming Merlin overborne 
By instance, recommenced, and let her tongue 
Kage like a Are among the noblest names. 
Polluting, and imputing her whole self, 
Defaming and defacing, till she left 
Not even Lancelot brave, uor Galahad clean. 

Her words had issue other than she will'd. 
He dragg'd his eyebrow bnshes down, and made 
A snowy penthouse for his hollow eyes, 
And mutter'd in himself, "Tell her the charm! 
So, if she had it, would she rail on me 
To snare the next, and if she have it not, 
So will she rail. What did the wanton say? 
'Not monnt as high ;' we scarce can sink as low: 
For men at most difter as heaven and earth. 
But women, worst and best, as heaven and hell. 
I know the Table Rouud, my friends of old ; 
All brave, and many generous, and some chaste. 
She cloaks the scar of some repulse with lies ; 
I well believe she tempted them and fail'd, 
Being bo bitter: for tine plots may fail,- 
Tho' harlots paint their talk as well as face 
With colors of the heart that are not theirs. 
I will not let her know : uiue tithes of times 
Face-flatterer and backbiter are the same. 
And they, sweet soul, that most impute a crime 
Are pronest to it, and impute themselves, 
Wanting the mental range ; or low desire 
Not to feel lowest makes them level all ; 
Yea, they would pare the mountain to the phiiu, 
To leave an equal baseness; and in this 
Are harlots like the crowd, that if they And 
Some stain or blemish in a name of note. 
Not grieving that their greatest are so small. 
Inflate themselves with some insane delight, 
Aud judge all nature from their feet of clay. 
Without the will to lift her eyes, and see 
Her godlike head crown'd with spiritual fire, 
And touching other worlds. I am weary of her." 

He spoke in words part heard, in whispers part, 
Half-suflfocated in the hoary fell 
Aud many-winter'd fleece of throat aud chin. 
But Vivieu, gathering somewhat of his mood, 
Aud hearing "harlot" mutter'd twice or thrice, 
Leapt from her session on his lap, and stood 
Stifl" as a viper frozen ; loathsome sight, 
How from the rosy lips of life aud love, 
Flash'd the bare-griuning skeleton of death ! 
White was her cheek ; sharp breaths of anger puff'd 
Her fairy nostril out ; her hand, half-clench'd, 
Weut faltering sideways downward to her belt, 
And feeling; had she found a dagger there 
(For in a wink the false love turns to hate) 
She would have stabb'd him ; but she found it not: 
His eye was calm, and suddenly she took 
To bitter weeping like a beaten child, 
A long, long weeping, not consolable. 
Then her false voice made way, broken with sobs: 

"O crueller than was ever told in tale, 
Or sung in song ! O vainly lavish'd love ! 
O cruel, there was nothing wild or strange. 
Or seeming shameful— for what shame in love. 
So love be true, and not as yoins is— nothing 
Poor Vivien had not done to win his trust 
Who caird her what he call'd her— all her crime. 
All— all— the wish to prove him wholly hers." 

She mused a little, and then clapt her hands 
Together with a wailing shriek, and said : 
"Stabb'd through the heart's aflfections to the heart! 
Seethed like the kid in its own mother's milk! 
Kill'd with a word worse than a life of blows ! 



I thought that he was gentle, being great: 

God, that I had loved a smaller man 1 

1 should have found in him a greater heart. 
Oh, I, that flattering my true passion, saw 

The knights, the court, the Kiug, dark in your light, 

Who loved to make men darker than they are. 

Because of that high pleasure which I had 

To seat you sole upon my pedestal 

Of worship — I am answer'd, and henceforth 

The course of life that seem'd so flowery to me 

With yim for guide and master, only you. 

Becomes the sea-clift" pathway broken short, 

And ending in a ruin — uothing left. 

But iuto some low cave to crawl, and there, 

If the wolf spare me, weep my life away, 

Kill'd with iuutierable uukiudiiness." 

She paused, she turn'd away, she hnng her head. 
The snake of gold slid from her hair, the braid 
Slipt aud uncoil'd itself, she wept afresh, 
Aud the dark wood grew darker toward the storm 
In silence, while his anger slowly died 
Within him, till he let his wisdom go 
For ease of heart, aud half believed her true : 
Call'd her to shelter in the hollow oak, 
" Come from the storm," and having no reply. 
Gazed at the heaving shoulder, and the face 
Hand-hidden, as for utmost grief or shame ; 
Then thrice essay'd, by tenderest-touching terms, 
To sleek her ruffled peace of mind, in vaiu. 
At last she let herself be conquer'd by him, 
And as the cageling, newly-flown, returns, 
The seeming-injured, simple-hearted thing. 
Came to her old perch back, and settled there. 
There while she sat, half-falling from his knees, 
Ealf-nestled at his heart, and since he saw 
The slow tear creep from her closed eyelid yet, 
About her, more in kindness than iu love, 
The gentle v\^izard cast a shielding arm. 
But she disliuk'd heiself at once and rose, 
Her arms upon her breast across, and stood, 
A virtuous gentlewoman deeply wrong'd. 
Upright aud flush'd before him : then she said : 

"There must be now no passages of love 
Betwixt us twain henceforward evermore ; 
Since, if I be what I am grossly call'd. 
What should be granted which your ovrn gross heart 
Would reckon worth the taking? I will go. 
In truth, bnt one thing now — better have died 
Thrice than have ask'd it once — could make me stay — 
That proof of trust so often ask'd in vain ! 
How justly, after that vile terra of yours, 
I find with grief! I might believe you then, 
Who knows? once more. Lo ! what was ouce to me 
Mere matter of the fancy, now hath grown 
The vast necessity of heart and life. 
Farewell ; think gently of me, for I fear 
My fate or folly, passing gayer youth 
For one so old, must be to love thee still. 
But ere I leave thee let me swear once more 
That if I schemed against thy peace in this, 
May yon just heaven, that darkens o'er me, send 
One flash, that, missing all things else, may make 
My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie." 

Scarce had she ceased, when out of heaven a bolt 
(For now the storm was close above them) struck, 
Fi'rrowing a giant oak, and javelining 
With darted spikes aud splinters of the wood 
The dark earth round. He raised his eyes and saw 
The tree that shone, white listed, thro' the gloom. 
But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard her oath, 
And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork, 
And deafeu'd with the stammering cracks and claps 
That follow'd, flying back and crying out, 
"O Merlin, tho' you do not love me, save. 
Yet save me !" clung to him and hugg'd him close; 



182 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



And caird him dear protector in lier fright, 

Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright, 

But wrought upon his mood and hugg'd him close. 

The pale blood of the wizard at her touch 

Took gayer colors, like an opal \varm"d. 

She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales: 

She shook fnmi fear, and for her fault she wept 

Of petulancy; she call'd him lord and liege, 

Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve. 

Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate love 

Of her whole life ; and ever overhead 

i illow'd the tempest, and the rotten branch 

Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain 

Above them ; and in change of glare and gloom 

Her eyes and neck, glittering, went and came ; 

Till now the storm, its burst of passion spent, 

Moaning and calling out of other lands, 

Had left the ravaged woodland yet once more 

To peace ; and what should not have been had been, 

For Merlin, overtalk'd and overworn. 

Had yielded, told her all the charm, and slept. 

Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm 
Of woven paces and of waving hands. 
And in the hollow oak he lay as dead, 
And lost to life and use and name and fame. 

Then crying, "I have made his glory mine," 
And shrieking out, "O fool!" the harlot leapt 
Adown the forest, and the thicket closed 
Behiud her, and the forest echoed, " fool." 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 

Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable, 
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, ** 

High in her chamber up a tower to the east 
Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot ; 
Which tirst she placed where morning's earliest ray 
Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam ; 
Then fearing rust or soilure, fashion'd for it 
A case of silk, and braided thereupon 
All the devices blazon'd on the shield 
In their own tinct, and added, of her wit, 
A border fantasy of branch and flower. 
And yellow-throated nestling in the nest. 
Nor rested thus content, but day by day. 
Leaving her household and good father, climb'd 
That eastern tower, and entering, barr'd her door, 
Stript off the case, and read the naked shield, 
Now guess'd a hidden meaning in his arras. 
Now made a pretty history to herself 
Of every dint a sword had beaten in it. 
And every scratch a lance had made upon it. 
Conjecturing when and where : this cut is fresh ; 
That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle ; 
That at Caerleon ; this at Camelot : 
And ah, God's mercy, what a stroke was there ! 
.And here a thrust that might have kill'd, but God 
Broke the strong lance, and roH'd his enemy down. 
And saved him : so she lived in fantasy. 

How came the lily maid by that good shield 
Of Lancelot, she that knew not ev'n his name? 
He left it with her, when he rode to tilt 
For the great diamond in the diamond jousts. 
Which Arthur had ordain'd, and by that name 
Had named them, since a diamond was the prize. 

For Arthur, long before they crown'd him King, 
iRoving the trackless realms of Lyonnesse, 
Had found a glen, gray boulder, and black tarn. 
A horror lived about the tarn, and clave 
Like its own mists to all the mountain side: 
For here two brothers, one a king, had met 



And fought together ; but their names were lost • 

And each had slain his brother at a blow ; 

And down they fell and made the glen abhorr'd: 

And there they lay till all their bones were bleach'd, 

And lichen'd into color with the crags: 

And he that once was king had on a crown 

Of diamonds, one in front, and four aside. 

And Arthur came, and laboring up the pass. 

All in a misty moonshine, unawares 

Had trodden that crown'd skeleton, and the skull 

Brake from the nape, and from the skull the crown 

KolI'd into light, and turning on its rims. 

Fled like a glittering rivulet to the tarn : 

And down the shingly scaur he plunged, and caught, 

And set it on his head, and in his heart 

Heard murmurs, "Lo, thou likewise shalt be King." 

Thereafter, when a King, he had the gems 
Pluck'd from the crown, and show'd them to his 

knights. 
Saying, "These jewels, whereupon I chanced 
Divinely, are the kingdom's, not the King's — 
For public use : henceforward let there be. 
Once every year, a joust for one of these : 
For so by nine years' proof we needs must learn 
Which is our mightiest, and ourselves shall grow 
In use of arms and manhood, till we drive 
The heathen, who, some say, shall rule the laud 
Hereafter, which God hinder." Thus he spoke: 
And eight years past, eight jousts had been, and still 
Had Lancelot won the diamond of the year. 
With purpose to present them to the Queen, 
When all were v.on ; but meaning all at once 
To snare her royal fancy with a boon 
Worth half her realm, had never spoken word. 

Now for the central diamond and the last 
And largest, Arthur, holding then his court 
Hard on the river, nigh the place which now 
Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust 
At Camelot, and when the time drew nigh 
Spake (for she had been sick) to Guinevere, 
"Are you so sick, my Queen, you cannot move 
To these fair jousts?" "Yea, lord," she said, "3-6 

know it." 
"Then will ye miss," he answer'd, "the great deeds 
Of Lancelot, and his prowess in the lists, 
A sight ye love to look on." And the Queen 
Lifted her eyes, and they dwelt languidly 
On Lancelot, where he stood beside the King. 
He, thinking that he read her meaning there, 
"Stay with me, I am sick; my love is more 
Than many diamonds," yielded ; and a heart 
Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen 
(However much he yearn'd to make complete 
The tale of diamonds for his destined boon) 
Urged him to speak against the truth, and say, 
"Sir King, mine ancient wound is hardly whole. 
And lets me from the saddle ;" and the King 
Glanced first at him, then her, and went his way. 
No sooner gone than suddenly she began : 

"To blame, my lord Sir Lancelot, much to blame 1 
Why go ye not to these fair jousts ? the knights 
Are half of them our enemies, and the crowd 
Will murmur, "Lo, the shameless ones, who take 
Their pastime now the trustful King is gone!"' 
Then Lancelot, ve.xt at having lied in vain : 
"Are ye so wise? ye were not once so wise, 
My Queen, that summer, when ye loved me first. 
Then of the crowd ye took no more account 
Than o( the myriad cricket of the mead. 
When its own voice clings to each blade of grass. 
And every voice is nothing. As to knights, 
Them surely can I silence with all ease. 
But now my loyal worship is allow'd 
Of all men : many a bard, without offence. 
Has link'd our names together iu his lay, 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



183 



Lancelot, the flower of bravery; Guinevere, 
The pearl of beauty: and our kniLrhts at feast 
Uave pledt;ed us iu this union, while the King 
Would listen smiling. How then? is there more? 
Has Arthur spoken aught ? or would yourself, 
Now weary of my service and devoir. 
Henceforth be truer to your faultless lord?" 

She broke into a little scornfuMaugh : 
"Arthur, my lord, Arthur, tlic faultless King, 
That passionate perfection, my good lord — 
But who can gaze upon the Sun in heaveu ? 
He never spake word of reproach to me. 
He never had a glimpse of mine untruth. 
He cares not for me : only here to-day 
There gleam'd a vague suspicion in his eyes : 
Some meddling rogue has tamper'd with him — else 
Rapt in this fancy of his Table Round, 
And swearing men to vows impossible. 
To make them like himself: but, friend, to me 
He is all fault who has no fault at all : 
For who loves me must have a touch of earth ; 
The low sun makes the color: I am yours. 
Not Arthur's, as ye know, save by the bond. 
And therefore hear my words : go to the jousts : 
The tiny-trumpeting gnat can break our dream 
When sweetest ; and the vermiu voices here 
May buzz so loud — we scoru them, but they sting." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights: 
"And with what face, after my pretext made, 
Shall I appear, O Queen, at Camelot, I 
Before a King who honors his own word, 
As if it were his God's?'' 

"Yea," said the Queen, 
"A moral child without the craft to rule. 
Else had he not lost me : but listen to me, 
I^ must find you wit : we hear it said 
That men go down before yonr spear at a touch. 
But knowing you are Lancelot ; your great name, 
This conquers: hide it, therefore; go unknown: 
Win ! by this kiss you will : and onr true King 
Will then allow your pretext, O my knight, 
As all for glory; for to speak him true. 
Ye know right well, how meek soe'er he seem, 
No keener hunter after glory breathes. 
He loves it In his knights more than himself: 
They prove to him his work : win and return." 

Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse. 
Wroth at himself. Not willing to be known, 
He left the barren-beaten thoroughfare, 
Chose the green path that show'd the rarer foot. 
And there among the solitary downs. 
Full often lost iu fancy, lost his way ; 
Till as he traced a faintly-shadow'd track, 
^ That all in loops and links among the dales 
Ran to the castle of Astolat, he saw 
Fired from the west, far on a hill, the towers. 
Thither he made, and blew the gateway horn. 
Then came an old, dumb, myriad-wrinkled man, •" 
Who let him into lodging and disarm'd. 
And Lancelot marvell'd at the wordless man ; 
And issuing, found the Lord of Astolat, 
With two strong sous, Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine. 
Moving to meet him in the castle court ; 
And close behind them stept the lily maid, 
Elaine, his daughter : mother of the honse 
There was nay: some light jest among them rose 
With laughter dying down as the great knight 
Approach*;! thera^: then the Lord of Astolat: 
"Wheucefcomestlthou, my guest, and by what name 
Livest between the lips ? for by thy state 
And presence I mHght guess the chief of those 
After the King, who eat in Arthur's halls. 
Him have I seen : the rest, his Table Round, 
Known as they are, to me they are unknowu," 



Then answer'd Lancelot, the chief of knights: 
" Known am 1, and of Arthur's hall, and known. 
What 1 by mere mischance have brought, my shield. 
But since I go to joust as one unknown 
At Camelot for the diamond, ask me not, 
Hereafter ye shall know me — and the shield — 
I pray you lend nie one, if such you have, 
Blank, or at least with some device not mine." 

Then said the Lord of Astolat, " Here is Torre's : 
Hurt in his first tilt was my son, Sir Torre. 
And so, God wot, his shield is blank enough. 
His ye can have.'' Then added plain Sir Torre, 
"Yea, since I cannot use it, ye may have it." 
Here laugh'd the father, saying, "Fie, Sir Churl, 
Is that an answer for a noble knight? »., 

Allow him ! but Lavaine, my younger here, » 
He is so full of lustihood, he will ride, 
Jonst for it, and win, and bring it in an hour. 
And set it in this damsel's golden hair. 
To make her thrice as willful as before." 

"Nay, father, nay, good father, shame me not 
Before this noble knight," said young Lavaine, 
"For nothing. Surely I but play'd on Torre: 
He seem'd so sullen, vext he could not go: 
A jest, no more ! for, knight, the maiden dreamt 
That some one put this diamond in her hand, 
And that it was too slippery to be held, 
And slipt and fell into some pool or stream, 
The castle-well, belike ; and then I said 
That if I went, and if I fought and won it 
(But all was jest and joke among ourselves). 
Then must she keep it safelier. All was jest. 
But, father, give me leave, an if he will. 
To ride to Camelot with this noble knight: 
Win shall I not, but do my best to win : 
Young as I am, yet would I do my best." 

"So ye will grace me," answer'd Lancelot, 
Smiling a moment, "with your fellowship 
O'er these waste downs whereon I lost myself. 
Then were I glad of yon as guide and friend : 
And you shall win this diamond— as I hear. 
It is a fair large diamond — if ye may. 
And yield it to this maiden, if ye will." 
"A fair large diamond," added plain Sir Torre, 
"Such be for queens, and not for simple maids." 
Then she, who held her eyes upon the ground, 
Elaine, and heard her name so tost about, 
Flush'd slightly at the slight disparagement 
Before the stranger knight, who, looking at her, 
Full courtly, ; at not falsely, thus return'd : 
" If what is fair be but for what is fair. 
And only queens are to be counted so, 
Rash were my judgment then, who deem this maid 
Might wear as fair a jewel as is on earth, 
Not violating the bond of like to like." 

He spoke and ceased : the lily maid Elaine, 
Won by the mellow voice before she look'd. 
Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments. 
The great and guilty love he bare the Queen, 
In battle with the love he bare his lord. 
Had marr'd his foce, and mark'd it ere his time. 
Another sinning on such heights with one, 
The flower of all the west and all the world, 
Had been the sleeker for it: but iu him 
His mood was often like a fiend, and rose 
And drove him into wastes and solitudes 
For agony, who was yet a living soul, 
Marr'd as he was, he seem'd the goodliest man 
That ever among ladies ate in hall. 
And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes. 
However marr'd, of more than twice her years, 
Seam'd with an ancient swordcut on the cheek. 
And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes 
And loved him, with that love which was her doom. 



184 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



Then the great knight, the darling of the court, 
Loved of the loveliest, into that rude hall 
Stept with all grace, aud not with half disdaiu 
Hid under grace, as in a smaller time, 
But kindly man moving among his kind: 
Whom they with meats and vintage of their best, 
And talk aud minstrel melody entertainVl. 
And much they ask'd of court and Table Round, 
And ever well aud readily auswer'd he: 
But Lancelot, when they glanced at Guinevere, 
Suddenly speaking of the wordless man,' 
Heard from the Baron that, ten years before, 
The heathen caught and reft him of his tongue. 
"He learnt aud warn'd me of their tierce design 
Against my house, and him they caught and maim'd ; 
But I, my sons, and little daughter fled 
From bonds or death, and dwelt among the woods 
By the great river in a boatman's hut. 
Dull days were those, till our good Arthur broke 
The Pagan yet once more ou Badou hill." 

"Oh, there, great lord, doubtless," Lavaiue said, 

TiXft, 

By all the sweet and sudden passion of youth 
Toward greatness in its elder, "you have fought. 
O tell us — for we live apart — you know 
Of Arthur's glorious wars." And Lancelot si)oke 
Aud auswer'd him at full, as having been 
With Arthur in the fight which all day long 
Kaug by the white month of the violent Glem ; 
And in the four loud battles by the shore 
Of Duglas ; that on Bassa ; then the war 
That thunder'd in and out the gloomy skirts 
Of Celidon the forest ; aud again 
By castle Gurniou, where the glorious King 
Had ou his cuirass worn our Lady's Head, 
Carved of one emerald centred in a sun 
Of silver rays, that lighlen'd as he breath'd ; 
Aud at Caerleon had he help'd his lord, 
When the strong neighings of the wild white Horse 
Set every gilded parapet shuddering ; 
And up in Agued-Cathregoniou too, 
And down the waste sand-shores of Trath Treroit, 
Where many a heathen fell ; " and ou the mount 
Of Badon I myself beheld the King 
Charge at the head of all his Table Ronnd, 
And all his legions crying Christ and him, 
Aud break them ; and I saw him, after, stand 
High on a heap of slain, from spur to plume 
Red as the rising sun with heathen blood, 
Aud seeing nie, with a great voice he cried, 
' They are broken, they are broken !' for the King, 
However mild he seems at home, nor cares 
For triumph in our mimic wars, the jousts — 
For if his own knight cast him down, he laughs, 
Saying, his knights are better men than he- 
Yet in this heathen war the fire of God 
Fills hira : I never saw his like : there lives 
No greater leader." 

While he utter'd this. 
Low to her own heart said the lily maid, 
"Save your great self, fair lord ;" and when he fell 
From talk of war to traits of pleasantry — 
Being mirthful he, but in a stately kind — 
She still took note that when the living smile 
Died from his lips, across him came a cloud 
Of melancholy severe, from which again, 
Whenever, in lier hovering to and fro. 
The lily maid had striven to make him cheer, 
Th^e brake a sudden-beaming tenderness 
Of manners and of nature: and she thought 
That all was nature, all, perchance, for her. 
Aud all night long his face before her lived, 
As when a painter, poring on a face. 
Divinely thro' all hindrance finds the man 
Behind it, and so paints him that his face. 
The shape and color of a miud and life, 



Lives for his children, ever at its best 
And fullest;:' so the face before her lived, 
Dark-splendid, speaking in the silence, full 
Of noble things, and held her from her sleep. 
Till rathe she rose, half-cheated in the thought 
She needs must bid farewell to sweet Lavaine. 
First as iu fear, step after step, she stole 
Down the hnig tower-stairs, hesitating : 
Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the court, 
"This shield, my frieud, where is it?" and Lavaine 
Past inward, as she came from out the tower. 
There to his proud horse Lancelot turu'd, and 

smooth'd 
The glossy shoulder, humming to himself. 
Half-envious of the flattering hand, siie drew 
Nearer and stood. He look'd, and more amazed 
Thau if seven men had set upon him, saw 
The maiden standing iu the dewy light. 
He had not dream'd she was so beautiful. 
Then came on him a sort of sacred fear. 
For silent, tho' he greeted her, she stood 
Kapt ou his face as if it were a God's. 
Suddenly fiash'd ou her a wild desire. 
That he should wear her favor at the tilt. 
She braved a riotous heart in asking for it. 
"Fair lord, whose name I know not — noble it is, 
I well believe, the noblest — will you wear 
My favor at this tourney ?" " Nay," said he, 
" Fair lady, since I never yet have worn 
Favor of any lady in the lists. 
Such is my wont, as those who know me, know." 
"Yea, so," she auswer'd; "then iu wearing mine 
Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord, 
Tliat those who know should know you." And he 

turn'd 
Her counsel up and down within his mind, 
And found it true, and auswer'd, "True, my child. 
Well, I will wear it : fetch it out to me : 
What is it?" and she told him, "A red sleeve ^^ 
Broider'd with pearls," and brought it : then he 

bound 
Her token on his helmet, with a smile 
Saying, "I never yet have done so much 
For any maiden living," and the blood 
Sprang to her face and fill'd her with delight ; 
But left her all the paler, wheu Lavaine 
Returning, brought the yet unblazon'd shield, 
His brother's ; which he gave to Lancelot, 
Who parted with his own to fair Elaine : 
" Do me this grace, my child, to have my shield 
In keeping till I come." "A grace to me," 
She auswer'd, "twice to-day. I am your squire!" 
Whereat Lavaine said, laughing, "Lily maid. 
For fear our people call you lily maid 
In earnest, let me bring your color back ; 
Once, twice, and thrice : now get yon hence to bed:" 
So kiss'd her, and Sir Lancelot his own hand. 
And thus they moved away : she stay'd a minute. 
Then made a sudden step to the gate, aud there — 
Her bright hair blown about the serious face 
Yet rosy-kindled with her brother's kiss — 
^Bused by the gateway, standing near the shield 
In silence, while she watch'd their arms far-oflf 
Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs. 
Then to her tower she climb'd, and took the shield. 
There kept it, and so lived iu fantasy. 

Meanwhile the new companions past away 
Par o'er the long backs of the bushless downs, 
To where Sir Lancelot kuew there lived a knight 
Not far from Camelot, now for forty years 
A hermit, who had pray'd, labor'd, and pray'd, 
And ever laboring, had scoop'd himself 
In the white rock a chapel and a hall 
Ou massive columns, like a shoreclifT cave. 
And cells and chambers : all were fair and dry ; 
The green light from the meadows underneath 
Struck up and lived along the milky roofs ; 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



18") 



Aud iu the meadows trenuilous aspen-treea 
And poplars made a noise of falling showers. 
Aud thiiher wendiug there that uight they bode. 

But when the next day broke from undergrouud, 
And shot red lire aud shadows thro' the cave, 
They rose, heard mass, broke fast, aud rode away: 
Then Lancelot saying, "Hear, but hold my name 
Hidden, you ride with Lancelot of the Lake," 
Abash'd Lavaiue, whose instant revereuce, 
Dearer to true young hearts thau their own praise. 
But left him leave to stammer, "Is it indeed?" 
And after mutteriug, "The great Lancelot," 
At last he got his breath and answer'd, "One, 
Oue have I seen — that other, our liege lord. 
The dread Pendragon, Britain's King of kings, 
Of whom the people talk mysteriously. 
He will be there — then were I stricken blind 
That miuute, I might say that I had seeu." 

So spake Lavaiue, and when they reach'd the lists 
By Camelot iu the meadow, let his eyes 
Kuu thro' the peopled gallery which half round 
Lay like a rainbow fall'u upon the grass, 
Ilutil they found the clear-faced King, who sat 
Robed in red samite, easily to be known. 
Since to his crown the golden dragon clung, 
And dowu his robe the dragon writhed in gold, 
And from the carveu-work behind him crept 
Two dragons gilded, sloping down to make 
Arms for his chair, while all the rest of them 
Thro' knots and loops and folds innumerable 
ried ever thro' the woodwork, till they found 
The new design wherein they lost themselves. 
Yet with all ease, so tender was the work: 
And, iu the costly canopy o'er him set. 
Blazed the last diamond of the nameless king. 

Theu Lancelot answer'd young Lavaine and said, 
"Me you call great: mine is the lirmer seat. 
The truer lance : but there is many a youth 
Now crescent, who will come to all I am 
And overcome it ; and iu me there dwells 
No greatness, save it be some far-ofl' touch 
Of greatness to know well I am not great: 
There is the man." And Lavaine gaped upon him 
As on a thing miraculous, and anon 
The trumpets blew ; and theu did either side. 
They that assail'd, and they that held the lists. 
Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move. 
Meet in the midst, and there so furiously 
Shock, that a man far-oft' might well perceive. 
If any man that day were left afield, 
The hard earth shake, and a low thunder of arms. 
And Lancelot bode a little, til! he saw 
Which were the weaker ; then he hurl'd into it 
Against the stronger : little need to speak 
Of Lancelot in his glory ! King, duke, earl. 
Count, baron — whom he smote, he overthrew. 

But in the field were Lancelot's kith and kin. 
Ranged with the Table Round that held the lists, 
Strong men, and wrathful that a stranger knight 
Should do and almost overdo the deeds 
Of Lancelot; and one said to the other, "Lo! 
What is he ? I do not mean the force aloue — 
The grace and versatility of the man 1 
Is it not Lancelot ?" " When has Lancelot worn 
Favor of any lady in the lists ? 
Not such his wout, as we, that know him, know." 
"How then? who theu?" a fury seized them all, 
A flery family passion for the name 
Of Lancelot, aud a glory one with theirs. 
They couch'd their spears and prick'd their steeds, 

and thus. 
Their plumes driv'n backward by the wind they made 
Iu moving, all together down upon him 
Bare, as a wild wave in the wide North-sea, 



Green-glimmering toward the summit, bears, with all 
Its stormy crests that smoke against the skies, 
Down on a bark, and overbears the bark, 
Aud him that helms it, so they overbore 
Sir Lancelot and his charger, and a spear 
Down-glancing, lamed the charger, and a spear 
Prick'd sharply his own cuirass, and the head 
Pierced thro' his side, aud there snapt, and remain'd. 

Then Sir Lavaine did well and worshipfully ; 
He bore a knight of old repute to the earth. 
And brought his horse to Lancelot where he lay. 
He up the side, sweating with agony, got, 
But thought to do while he might yet endure, 
Aud being lustily holpeu by the rest, 
His party — tho' it seem'd half-miracle 
To those he fought with— drave his kith and kin. 
And all the Table Round that held the lists. 
Back to the barrier; then the trumpets blew 
Proclaiming his the prize, who wore the sleeve 
Of scarlet, aud the pearls ; and all the knights. 
His party, cried, "Advance and take thy prize. 
The diamond ;" but he answer'd, " Diamond me 
No diamonds ! for God's love, a little air I 
Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death ! 
Heuce will I, and I charge you, follow me not." 

He spoke, and vanish'd suddenly from the field 
With young Lavaine into the poplar grove. ^^^ 
There from his charger down he slid, and sat. 
Gasping to Sir Lavaine, "Draw the lance-head:" 
"Ah, my sweet lord Sir Lancelot," said Lavaine, 
"I dread me, if I draw it, you will die." 
But he, "I die already with it: draw — 
Draw,"— aud Lavaine drew, aud Sir Laucelot gave 
A marvelous great shriek and ghastly groan. 
And half his blood burst forth, and down he sank 
For the pure pain, and wholly swoou'd away. 
Then came the hermit out and bare him in, •■»- 
There stanch'd his wound ; and there, in daily doubt 
Whether to live or die, for many a week 
Hid from the wide world's rumor by the grove 
Of pojjlars with their noise of falling showers, 
And ever-tremulous aspen-trees, he lay. 

But on that day when Lancelot fled the lists, 
His party, knights of utmost North and West, 
Lords of waste marches, kings of desolate isles, 
Came round their great Pendragon, saying to him, 
"Lo, Sire, our knight, thro' whom we won the day, 
Hath gone sori, wounded, and hath left his prize 
Untaken, crying that his prize is death." 
"Heaven hinder," said the King, "that such au one, 
So great a knight as we have seen to-day — 
He seem'd to me another Lancelot — 
Yea, twenty times I thought him Lancelot- 
He must not pass uucared for. Wherefore, rise, 

Gawain, aud ride forth and find the knight. 
Wounded and wearied, needs must he be near. 

1 charge you that you get at once to horse. 

Aud, knights and kings, there breathes not oue of you 
Will deem this prize of ours is rashly given: 
His prowess was too wondrous. We- will do him 
No customary honor: since the knight 
Came not to us, of us to claim the prize, 
Ourselves will send it after. Rise and take 
This diamond, and deliver it, and return, 
And bring us where he is, and how he fares, 
Aud cease not from your quest until ye find." 

So saying, from the carven flower above. 
To which it made a restless heart, he took, 
And gave, the diamond : then from where he sat 
At Arthur's right, with smiling face arose. 
With smiling face and frowning heart, a Prince 
In the mid might aud flourish of his May, 
Gawain, surnamed The Courteous, fair and strong, 
And after Laucelot, Tristram, and Geraiut 



ii. 



186 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



And Gareth, a good knight, but therewithal 

Sir Modred's brother, and the child of Lot, 

Nor often loyal to his word, and now 

Wroth that the King's command to sally forth 

In quest of whom he knew not, made him leave 

The banquet and concourse of knights and kings.\ 

So all in wrath he got to horse and went; 
While Arthur to the banquet, dark in mood, 
Past, thinking, "Is it Lancelot who hath come 
Despite the wound he spake of, all for gain 
Of glory, and hath added wound to wound. 
And ridd'n away to die ?" So fear'd the King, 
And, after two days' tarriance there, return'd. 
Then when he saw the Queen, embracing, ask'd, 
" Love, are you yet so sick ?" " Nay, lord," she said. 
" And where is Lancelot ?" Then the Queen, amazed, 
"Was he not with you? won he not your prize?" 
"Nay, but one like him." " Why, that like was he." 
And when the King demanded how she knew. 
Said, "Lord, no sooner had ye parted from us. 
Than Lancelot told me of a common talk 
That men went down before his spear at a touch, 
But knowing he was Lancelot ; his great name 
Conquer'd ; and therefore would he hide his name 
From all men, ev'n the King, and to this end 
Had made the pretext of a hindering wound. 
That he might joust unknown of all, and learn 
If his ^ql d prowess were in aught decay'd ; 
And added, 'Our true Arthur, when he learns, 
Will well allow my pretext, as for gain 
Of purer glory.' " 

Then replied the King: 
"Far lovelier in our Lancelot had it been. 
In lieu of idly dallying with the truth, 
TJJ) have trusted me as he hath trusted thee. 
Surely his King and most familiar friend 
Might well have kept his secret. True, indeed. 
Albeit I know my knights fantastical, 
So tine a fear in our large Lancelot 
Must needs have moved my laughter : now remains 
But little cause for laughter: his own kin- 
Ill news, ray Queen, for all who love him, this ! — 
His kith and kin, not knowing, set upon him ; 
So that he went sore wounded from the field : 
Yet good news too : for goodly hopes are mine 
That Lancelot is no more a lonely heart. 
He wore, against his wont, upon his helm 
A sleeve of scarlet, broider'd with great pearls. 
Some gentle maiden's gift." 

"Yea, lord," she said, 
"Thy hopes are mine." and saying that, she choked, 
And sharply turn'd about to hide her face. 
Past to her chamber, and there flung herself 
Down on the great King's couch, and writhed upon it. 
And clench'd her fingers till they bit the palm. 
And shriek'd out, "Traitor," to the unhearing wall, 
Then flashed into wild tears, and rose again, 
And moved about her palace, proud and pale. 

Gawain the while thro' all the region round 
Rode with his diamond, wearied of the quest, 
Touch'd at all points, except the poplar grove. 
And came at last, tho' late, to Astolat: 
Whom, glittering in enamell'd arms, the maid 
Glanced at, and cried, "What news from Camelot, 

lord ? 
What of the knight with the red sleeve?" "He 

won." 
"I knew it," she said. "But parted from the jousts 
Hurt in the side," whereat she caught her breath ; 
Thro' her own side she felt the sharp lance go; 
Thereon she smote her hand: welluigh she swoon'd: 
And, while he gazed wonderingly at her, came 
The Lord of Astolat out, to whom the Prince 
Reported who he wne, and on what qnest 



Sent, that he bore the prize and could not find 

The victor, but had ridd'n a random round 

To seek him, and had wearied of the search. 

To whom the Lord of Astolat, " Bide with us, 

And ride no more at random, noble Prince ! 

Here was the knight, and here he left a shield ; 

This will he send or come for: furthermore. 

Our son is with him ; we shall hear anon, 

Needs must we hear." To this the courteous Prince 

Accorded with his wonted courtesy. 

Courtesy with a touch of traitor in it, 

And stay'd ; and cast his eyes on fair Elaine : 

Where could be found face daintier ? then her shape. 

From forehead down to foot, perfect— again 

From foot to forehead exquisitely turn'd : 

" Well — if I bide, lo I this wild flower for me !" 

And oft they met among the garden yews, « 

And there he set himself to play upon her 

With sallying wit, free flashes from a height 

Above her, graces of the court, and songs. 

Sighs, and slow 8«i,''"s. and golden eloquence 

And amorous adult, ^ill the maid 

Rebell'd against it, fciiymg to him, "Prince, 

O loyal nephew of our noble King, 

Why ask you not to see the shield he left, ,, 

Whence you might learn his name ? Why slight yonr 

King 
And lose the qnest he sent yon on, and prove 
No surer than our falcon yesterday. 
Who lost the hern we slipt him at, and went 
To all the winds?" " Na)', by mine head," said he, 
" I lose it, as we lose the lark in heaven, 

damsel, in the light of your blue eyes ; 
But an ye will it, let me see the shield." 

And when the shield was brought, and Gawain saw 
Sir Lancelot's azure lions, crown'd with gold, 
Ramp in the field, he smjte his thigh, and mock'd : 
"■Right was the King ! our Lancelot ! that true 

man !" 
"And right was I," she answer'd merrily, " I, 
Who dream'd ray knight the greatest knight of all." 
"And if / dream'd," said Gawain, " that you love 
This greatest knight, your pardon ! lo, ye know it t 
Speak therefore : shall I waste myself in vain ?" 
Full simple was her answer, "What know I? 
My brethren have been all my fellowship ; 
And I, when often they have talk'd of love, 
Wish'd it had been my mother, for they talk'd, 
Meseem'd, of what they knew not ; so myself — 

1 know not if I know what true love is. 
But if I know, then, if I love not him, 

I know there is none other I can love." 

"Yea, by God's death," said he, "ye love him well, 

But would not, knew ye what all others know, 

And whom he loves." " So be it," cried Elaine, 

And lifted her fair face and moved away: 

But he pursued her, calling, " Stay a little ! 

One golden minute's grace ! he wore your sleeve : 

Would he break faith with one I may not name? 

Must our true man change like a leaf at last? 

Nay — like enow : why, then far be it from me 

To cross our mighty Lancelot in his loves ! 

And, damsel, for I deem you know full well 

Where your great knight is hidden, let me leave 

My quest with you ; the diamond also : here ! 

For if you love, it will be sweet to give it ; 

And if he love, it will be sweet to have it 

From your own hand ; and whether he love or not, 

A diamond is a diamond. Fare you well 

A thousand times !— a thousand times farewell ! 

Yet, if he love, and his love hold, we two 

May meet at court hereafter : there, I think, 

So ye will learn the courtesies of the court, 

We two shall know each other." 

Then he gave, 
And slightly kiss'd the hand to which he gave, 
The diamond, and all wearied of the quest, 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



187 



Leapt ou bis horse, and carolling as he weut 
A true-love ballad, lightly rode away. 

Theuce to the court he past ; there told the King 
What the Kiug kucw, "Sir Lancelot is the knight." 
Aud added, " Sire, uiy liege, so much I learut ; 
But fail'd to find him, tho' I rode all rouud 
The region : but I lighted ou the maid 
Whose sleeve he wore ; she loves him : aud to her, 
Deeming our courtesy is the truest law, 
1 gave the diamond : she will render it ; 
For by miue head she knows his hiding-place." 

The eeldom-frowning King frown'd, and replied, 
"Too courteous truly! ye shall go no more 
Ou quest of miue, seeing that ye forget 
Obedience is the courtesy due to kings." 

He spake and parted. Wroth, but all iu awe, 
For twenty strokes of the blood, without a word, 
Liuger'd that other, stam*^after him ; 
Then shook bis hair,. (?frode uft", and buzz'd abroad 
About the maid of Astolat and her love. 
All ears were prick'd at once, all tongues were loosed : 
"The maid of Astolat loves Sir Lancelot, 
Sir Lancelot loves the maid of Astolat." 
Some read the King's face, some the Queeu's, and all 
Had marvel what the maid might be, but most 
Predoom'd her as unworthy. One old dame 
Came suddenly on the Queen with the sharp news. 
She, that had heard the noise of it before, 
But sorrowing Lancelot should have stoop'd so low, 
Marr'd her friend's aim with pale tranquillity. 
So ran the tale like Are about the court. 
Fire iu dry stubble a nine-days' wonder flared : 
Till ev'u the knights at bauquet twice or thrice 
Forgot to drink to Lancelot and the Queen, 
And pledging Lancelot and the lily maid 
Smiled at each other, while the Queen, who sat 
With lips severely placid, felt the knot 
Climb in her throat, aud with her feet unseen 
Crush'd the wild passion out against the floor 
Beneath the banquet, where the meats became 
As wormwood, aud she hated all who pledged. 

But far away the maid in Astolat, 
Her guiltless rival, she that ever kept 
The oue-day-seeu Sir Lancelot in her heart, 
Crept to her father, while he mused alone, 
Sal ou his knee, stroked his gray face aud said, 
"Father, you call me wilful, aud the fault 
Is yours who let me have my will, and now, 
Sweet father, will you let me lose my wits ?" 
"Nay," said he, "surely." "Wherefore, let me hence," 
She auswer'd, "and And out our dear Lavaiue." 
"Ye will not lose your wits for dear Lavaine: 
Bide," auswer'd he: "we needs must hear auou 
Of him, and of that other." "Ay," she said, 
"Aud of that other, for I needs must hence 
And find that other, wheresoe'er he be, 
Aud with mine own hand give his diamond to him. 
Lest I be found as faithless in the quest 
As you proud Prince who left the quest to me. 
Sweet father, I behold him in my dreams 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself. 
Death-pale, for lack of gentle maiden's aid. 
The gentler born the maiden, the more bound, 
My father, to be sweet and serviceable 
To noble knights in sickness, as ye know, 
Wheu these have worn their tokens : let me hence, 
I pray you." Then her father nodding said, 
"Ay, ay, the diamond: wit ye well, my child. 
Right fain were I to learn this knight were whole. 
Being our greatest : yea, aud you must give it — 
And sure I think this fruit is hung too high 
For any mouth to gape for save a queen's — 
Nay, I mean nothing: so then, get you gone, 
Being so very wilful, you must go." 



Lightly, her suit allow'd, she slipt away, 
Aud while she made her ready for her ride, 
Her father's latest word humm'd in her ear, 
" Being so very wilful you must go," 
And changed itself, aud echo'd in her heart, 
"Being so very wilful you must die." 
But she was happy enough and shook it ofl", 
As we shake off the bee that buzzes at us ; 
And in her heart she auswer'd it aud said, 
"What matter, so 1 help him back to life?" 
Then far away, with good Sir Torre for guide. 
Rode o'er the long backs of the bushless downs 
To Camelot, aud before the city-gates 
Came on her brother with a happy face 
Making a roan horse caper and curvet 
For pleasure all about a field of flowers. 
Whom when she saw, "Lavaiue," she cried, "L? 

vaine. 
How fares my lord Sir Lancelot?" He amazed, 
" Torre aud Elaine ! why here ? Sir Lancelot ! 
How know ye my lord's name is Lancelot ?" 
But when the maid had told him all her tale, 
Then turu'd Sir Torre, aud being in his moods 
Left them, and under the strange-statued gate. 
Where Arthur's wars were render'd mystically, 
Past up the still rich city to his kin. 
His own far blood, which dwelt at Camelot; 
Aud her, Lavaine across the poplar grove 
Led to the caves : there first she saw the casque 
Of Lancelot ou the wall : her scarlet sleeve, 
Tho' carved and cut, and half the pearls away, 
Stream'd from it still ; aud iu her heart she laugh'd, 
Because he had not loosed it from his helm. 
But meaut once more perchance to tourney in it. 
Aud when they gain'd the cell wherein be slept, 
His battle-writheu arms aud mighty hands V 
Lay naked on the wolfskin, aud a dream ^ 

Of dragging down his enemy made them move. 
Theu she that saw him lying uusleek, unshorn. 
Gaunt as it were the skeleton of himself, 
Uttered a little tender dolorous cry. 
The sound not wonted in a place so still 
Woke the sick knight, and while he roll'd his eyes 
Yet blank from sleep, she started to him, saying, 
"Your prize the diamond sent you by the King:" 
His eyes giisleu'd : she fancied " Is it for me ?" 
And when the maid had told him all the tale 
Of Kiug and Prince, the diamond sent, the quest 
Asjigu'd to her not worthy of it, she knelt 
Full lowly by the corners of his bed. 
And laid the diamond in his open hand. 
Her face was near, and as we kiss the child 
That does the task assigu'd, he kiss'd her face. 
At once she slipt like water to the floor. 
"Alas," he said, "your ride hath wearied you. 
Rest must you have." '-No rest for me," she said; 
"Nay, for near you, fair lord, I am at rest." 
What might she mean by that 1 his large, black eyes, 
Yet larger thro' his leanness, dwelt upon her. 
Till all her heart's sad secret blazed itself 
In the heart's colors on her simple face ; 
And Lancelot look'd and was perplext in mind. 
And being weak in body said no more ; 
But did not love the color ; woman's love. 
Save one, he not regarded, and so turu'd. 
Sighing, and feign'd a sleep uutil he slept. 

Then rose Elaine and glided thro' the fields. 
And past beneath the weirdly-sculptured gates 
Far up the dim rich city to her kin ; 
There bode the night ; but woke with dawn, aud past 
Down thro' the dim rich city to the fields. 
Thence to the cave: so day by day she past 
In either twilight ghost-like to and fro 
Gliding, and every day she tended him. 
And likewise many a night: and Lancelot • 
Would, tho' he call'd his wound a little hurt 
Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times 



188 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



c M 




..; 



Braiu-feverous iu his heat aud agony, seem 
Uucourteoiis, even he : but the meek maid 
Sweetly forbore him ever, beiug to him 
Meeker than any child to a rough nurse, 
Milder than any mother to a sick child. 
And never woman yet, since man's first fiiU, 
Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love 
Upbore her ; till the hermit, skill'd iu all 
The simples and the science of that time. 
Told him that her fine care had saved his life. 
And the sick man forgot her simple blush. 
Would call her friend aud sister, sweet Elaine, 
Would listen for her coming and regret 
Her parting step, and held her tenderly, 
And loved her with all love except the love 
Of man aud womau when they love their best. 
Closest and sweetest, and had died the death 
In any knightly fashion for her sake. 
And peradventure had he seen her first 
She might have made this and that other world 
Another world for the sick man ; but now 
^The shackles of an old love straiten'd him. 
His honor rooted in dishonor stood. 
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. / 

Yet the great knight in his mid-sickness made 
Full many a holy vow aud pure resolve. 
These, as but born of sickness, could not live: 
For when the blood ran lustier in him again, 
Full often the bright image of one face. 
Making a treacherous quiet in his heart, 
Dispersed his resolution like a cloud. 
Then if the maiden, while that ghostly grace 
Beam'd on his fancy, spoke, he answer'd not. 
Or short and coldly, and she knew right well 
WJ^t the rough sickness meant, but what this meant 
She knew not, and the sorrow dimm'd her siglii, 
Aud drave her ere her time across the fields 
Far into the rich city, where alone 
She murmur'd, "Vain, in vain: it cannot be. 
He will not love me: how then? must I die?" 
Then as a little helpless innocent bird, 
That has but one plain passage of few notes, 
Will sing the simple passage o'er and o'er 
For all an April morning, till the ear 
Wearies to hear it, so the simple maid • 
Went half the night repeating, "Must I die?" 
And now to right she turn'd, aud now to left. 
And found no ease in turning or iu rest ; 
And "Him or death," she muttei'd, "death or him," 
Again aud like a burthen, "Him or death." 

But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whole, 
To Astolat returning rode the three. 
There morn by morn, arraying her sweet self 
In that wherein she deein'd she look'd her best, 
She came before Sir Lancelot, for she thought, 
'"If I be loved, these are my festal robes, 
If not, the victim's (lowers before he fajlj' 
Aud Lancelot ever prest upon the maid 
That she should ask some goodly gift of him 
For her own self or hers ; " aud do not shun 
To speak the wish most near to your true heart; 
Such service have ye done me, that I make 
My will of yours, and Prince and Lord am I 
In mine own land, and what I will I can." 
Then like a ghost she lifted up her face. 
But like a ghost without the power to speak. 
Aud Lancelot saw that she withheld her wish, 
And bode among them yet a little space 
Till he should learn it; and one morn it chanced 
He found her in among the garden yews. 
And said, "Delay no longer, speak your wish. 
Seeing I go to-day:" then out she brake: 
"Going? aud we shall never see you more. 
And I must die for want of oue bold word."' 
"Speak: that I live to hear," he said, "is yours." 
Theu suddenly aud passiouately she spoke: 



"I have gone mad. I love you: let me die." 

"Ah, sister," answer'd Lancelot, "what is this?" 

And innocently e.xteuding her white arms, 

"Your love," she said, "your love — to be your vvifs.' 

And Lancelot answer'd, "Had I chosen to wed, 

I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine: 

But now there never will be wife of mine." 

"No, no," she cried, "I care not to be wife, 

But to be with you still, to see your face, 

To serve you, and to follow you thro' the world." 

Aud Lancelot answer'd, "Nay, the world, the world, 

All ear aud eye, with such a stupid heart 

To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue 

To blare its own interpretation — nay, 

Full ill then should I quit your brother's love, 

And your good father's kindness." And she said, 

"Not to be with you, not to see your face — 

Alas for me then, my good days are done." 

"Nay, noble maid," he iinswer'd, "teu times nay! 

This is not love: but love's first flash iu youth, 

Most comtnon : yea, I know it of mine own self: 

Aud you yourself will smile at your own self 

Hereafter, when you yield your flower of life 

To one more fitly yours, not thrice your age: 

Aud theu will I, for true you are and sweet 

Beyond mine old belief iu womanhood. 

More specially should your good knight be poor. 

Endow you with broad land aud territory 

Even to the half my realm beyond the seas. 

So that would make you happy: furthermore, 

Ev'u to the death, as tho' ye were my blood, 

In all your quarrels will I be your knight. 

This will I do, dear damsel, for your sake, 

Aud more than this I caunot." 

While he spoke 
She neither blush'd nor shook, but deathly-pale 
Stood grasping what was nearest, then replied : 
"Of all this will I nothing;" and so fell, 
Aud thus they bore her swooning to her tower. 

Then spake, to whom thro' those black walls of yew 
Their talk had pierced, her father: "Ay, a flash, 
I fear me, that will strike my blossom dead. 
Too courteous are ye, fair Lord Lancelot. 
I pray you, use some rough discourtesy 
To blunt or break her passion." 

Lancelot said, 
" That were against me : what I can I will ;" 
Aud there that day reraain'd, and toward even 
Sent for his shield : full meekly rose the maid, 
Stript ofi" the case, aud gave the naked shield ; 
Then, when she heard his horse upon the stones, 
LTncUisi)iug, flung the casement back, and look'd 
Down on his hehn, from which her sleeve had gone. 
And Lancelot knew the little clinking sound; 
And she by tact of love was well aware 
That Lancelot knew that she was looking at hira. 
And yet he glanced not up, nor waved his hand. 
Nor bade farewell, but sadly rode away. 
This was the one discourtesy that he used. 

So in her tower alone the maiden sat : 
His very shield was gone ; only the case, 
Her own pocn* work, her empty labor, left. 
But still she heard him, still his picture form'd 
And grew between her and the pictured wall. 
Then came her father, saying iu low tones, 
"Have comfort," whom she greeted quietly. 
Theu came her brethren, saying, "Peace to th' ., 
Sweet sister," whom she answer'd with all calm. 
But when they left her to herself again. 
Death, like a friend's voice from a distant field 
Approaching thro' the darkness, call'd ; the owls 
Wailing had power upon her, and she mixt 
Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms 
Of eveuing, and the moauiugs of the wind. 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



189 



And in those days she made a little song, 
And caird her song "The Song of Love and Death," 
And saujj it : sweetly could she make and sing. 

" Sweet is true love, the' given in vain, in vain ; 
And sweet is death who puts an end to pain : 
1 know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

" Love, art thou sweet ? then bitter death must be : 
Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death to nie. 

Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. 

"Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away. 
Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay, 

1 know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 

"I fain would follow love, if that could be; 
1 needs must follow death, who calls for me ; 
Call and I follow, I follow ! let me die." 

High with the last line scaled her voice, and this. 
All in a liery dawning wild with wind 
That shook her tower, the brothers heard, and 

thought. 
With shuddering, "Hark the Phantom of the house, 
That ever shrieks before a death," and call'd 
The father, and all three in hurry and fear 
Ran to her, and lo 1 the blood-red light of dawn 
Flared ou her face, she shrilling, "Let me die !" 

As when we dwell upon a word we know, 
Repeating, till the word we know so well 
Becomes a wonder, and we know not why. 
So dwelt the father on her face, and thought, 
"Is this Elaine?" till back the maiden fell, 
Then gave a languid hand to each, and lay. 
Speaking a still good-morrow with her eyes. 
At last she said, "Sweet brothers, yesternight 
I seem'd a curious little maid again, 
As happy as when we dwelt among the woods, 
And when ye used to take me with the flood 
Up the great river in the boatman's boat. 
Only ye would not pass beyond the cape ,s^ 

That has the poplar on it : there ye tixt .1 ^ 



Your limit, oft returning with the tide. ^ > 
And vet I cried because ye would not passs"- 
Beyond it, and far up the shining flood 
Until we found the palace of the King. 
And yet ye would not ; but this night I dream'd 
That I was all alone upon the flood, 
And then I said, 'Now shall I have my will:' 
And there I woke, but still the wish remain'd. 
So let me hence that I may pass at last 
Beyond the poplar and far up the flood, 
Uutil I find the palace of the King. 
There will I enter in among them all. 
And no man there will dare to mock at me ; 
But there the fine Gawaiu will wonder at me. 
And there the great Sir Lancelot muse at me; 
Gawain, who bade a thousand farewells to me, 
Lancelot, who coldly vi'ent, nor bade me one : 
And there the King will know mo and my love. 
And there the Queen herself will pity me. 
And all the gentle court will welctmie me. 
And after my long voyage I shall rest !'' 

"Peace," said her father, "O my child, ye seem 
Light-headed, for what force is yours to go 
So far, being sick ? and wherefore would ye look 
Ou this proud fellow again, who scorns us all ?" 

Then the rough Torre began to heave and move. 
And bluster into stormy sobs, and say, 
"I never loved him: an I meet with him, 
I care not howsoever great he be, 
Then will I strike at him and strike him down, 
Give me good fortune, I will strike him dead, 
For this discomfort he hath done the house." 



To whom the gentle sister made reply, 
"Fret not yourself, dear brother, nor be wroth, 
Seeing it is no more Sir Lancelot's fault 
Not to love me, than it is mine to love 
Him of all men who seems to me the highest." 

"'Highest?'" the father auswer'd, echoing, "higu" 
est" 
(He meant to break the passion in her), " nay. 
Daughter, I know not what you call the highest ; 
But this I know, for all the people know it. 
He loves the Queen, and in an open shame : 
And she returns his love in open shame. 
If this be high, what is it to be low ?" 

Then spake the lily maid of Astolat: 
"Sweet father, all too faint and sick am I 
For anger : these are slanders : never yet 
Was noble man but made ignoble talk. 
Tie makes no friend who never made a foe./ 
But now it is my glory to have loved/ 
One peerless, without stain : so let me pass, 
My father, howsoe'er I seem to yon, 
Not all unhappy, having loved God's best 
And greatest, tho' my love had no return : 
Yet, seeing you desire your child to live, 
Thanks, but you work against your own desire ; 
For if I could believe the things ytm say 
I should but die the sooner; wherefore cease. 
Sweet father, and bid call the ghostly man 
Hither, and let me shrive me clean, and die." 

So when the ghostly man had come and gone. 
She' with a face bright, as for sin forgiven. 
Besought Lavaine to write as she devised 
A letter, word for word ; and when he ask'd, 
"Is it for Lancelot, is it for my dear lord? 
Then will I bear it gladly ;" she replied, 
"For Lancelot and the Queen and all the world^^ 
But I myself must bear it." Then he wrote •-- 
The letter she devised ; which being writ-^ 
And folded, "O sweet father, tender and true,- 
Deuy me not," she said — "ye never yet 
Denied my fancies — this, however strange. 
My latest: lay the letter in my hand 
A little ere I die, and close the hand 
Upon it ; I shall guard it even in death. 
And when the heat is gone from out my heart. 
Then take the little bed on which I died 
For Lancelot's love, and deck it like the Queen's 
For richness, and me also like the Queen 
In all I have of rich, and lay me on it. 
And let there be prepared a chariot-bier 
To take me to the river, and a barge 
Be ready on the river, clothed in black. 
I go in state to court, to meet the Queen. 
There surely I shall speak for mine own self, 
And none of you can speak for me so well. 
And therefore let our dumb old man alone 
Go with me, he can steer and row, and he 
Will guide me to that palace, to the doors." 

She ceased: her father promised; whereupon 
She grew so cheerful that they deem'd her death 
Was rather in the fantasy than the blood. 
But ten slow mornings past, and ou the eleventh 
Her father laid the letter in her hand. 
And closed the hand upon it, and she died. 
So that day there was dole in Astolat. 

Bnt when the next sun brake from underground, 
Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows 
Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier 
Past !ike a shadow thro' the field, that shone 
Full-summer, to that stream whereon the barge, 
Pall'd all its length in blackest samite, lay. 
There sat the lifelong creature of the house 
Loyal, the dumb old servitor, ou deck, 



190 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face. 

So those two brethreu from the chariot took 

And on the black decks laid her in her bed, 

Set iu her hand a lily, o'er her hung 

The silken case with braided blazonings, 

And kiss'd her qniet brows, and saying to her 

"Sister, farewell for ever," and again 

" Farewell, sweet sister," parted all iu tears. 

Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead, 

Oar'd by the dumb, went upward with the flood — 

In her right hand the lily, iu her left 

The letter— all her bright hair streaming down— 

Aud all the coverlid was cloth of gold 

Drawn to her waist, and she herself iu white 

All but her face, aud that clear-featured face 

Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead, 

But fast asleep, aud lay as tho' she smiled. 

That day Sir Lancelot at the palace craved 
Audience of Guinevere, to give at last 
The price of half a realm, his costly gift. 
Hard-won aud hardly won with bruise and blow, 
With deaths of others, and almost hie own, 
The nine-years-fought-for diamonds : for he saw 
One of her house, and sent him to the Queeu 
Bearing his wish, whereto the Queen agreed 
With such and so unmoved a majesty 
She might have seem'd her statue, but that he, 
Low-drooping till he wellnigh kiss'd her feet 
For loyal awe, saw with a sidelong eye 
The shadow of some piece of pointed lace, 
In the Queen's shadow, vibrate on the walls, 
Aud parted, laughing in his courtly heart. 

All in an oriel on the summer side, 
Vine-clad, of Arthur's palace toward the stream. 
They met, aud Lancelot kneeling utter'd, "Queen, 
Lady, my liege, in whom I have my joy. 
Take, what I had not won except for you. 
These jewels, and make me happy, making them 
An armlet for the roundest arm on earth. 
Or necklace for a neck to which the swan's 
Is tawnier than her cygnet's : these are words : 
Your beauty is your beauty, and I sin 
In speaking, yet, oh grant my worship of it 
Words, as we grant grief tears. Such sin in words 
Perchance, we both can pardon : but, ray Queeu, 
I hear of rumors flying thro' your court. 
Our bond, as not the bond of man and wife, 
Should have iu it an absoluter trust 
To make up that defect : let rumors be : 
When did not rumors fly? these, as I trust 
That you trust me iu yimr own nobleness, 
I may not well believe that you believe." 

While thus he spoke, half turn'd awaj', the Queeu 
Brake from the vast oriel-embowering vine ^,^- 
Leaf after leaf, aud tore, aud cast them oft", 
Till all the place whereon she stood was green ; 
Then, when he ceased, iu one cold passive hand 
Received at once aud laid aside the gems 
There on a table near her, aud replied : 

"It may be, I am quicker of belief 
Than you believe me, Lancelot of the Lake. 
Our boud is not the bond of man aud wife. 
This good is iu it, whatsoe'er of ill, 
It can be broken easier. I for you 
This many a year have doue despite aud wrong 
To one whom ever in my heart of hearts 
I did acknowledge nobler. What are these ? 
Diamonds for me ! they had been thrice their worth 
Being your gift, had you not lost your own. 
To loyal hearts the value of all gifts 
Must vary as the giver's. Not for me ! 
For her ! for your new faucy. Ouly this 
Grant me, I pray you : have your joys apart. 
Z doubt not that however changed, you keep 



So much of what is graceful : and myself 

Would shun to break those bounds of courtesy 

In which as Arthur's Queeu 1 move aud rule: 

So cannot speak my mind. An end to this ! 

A strange one ! yet I take it with Amen. 

So pray you, add my diamonds to her pearls ; 

Deck her with these ; tell her, she shines me down : 

An armlet for an arm to which the Queen's 

Is haggard, or a necklace for a neck 

Oh, as much fairer— as a faith once fair 

Was richer than, these diamonds — hers, not mine — 

Nay, by the mother of our Lord himself. 

Or hers or mine, mine now to work my will — 

She shall not have them." 

Saying which she seized, 
And thro' the casement standing wide for heat. 
Flung them, aud down they flash'd, and smote the 

stream. 
Then from the smitten surface flash'd, as it were, 
Diamonds to meet them, and they past away. 
Then while Sir Lancelot leant, iu half disdain 
At love, life, all things, on the window ledge. 
Close underneath his eyes, and right across 
Where these had fallen, slowly past the barge 
Whereon the lily maid of Astolat 
Lay smiling, like a star in blackest night. 

But the wild Queen, who saw not, burst away 
To weep and wail in secret ; and the barge, 
On to the palace-doorway sliding, paused. 
There two stood arm'd, aud kept the door; to 

whom. 
All up the marble stair, tier over tier. 
Were added mouths that gaped, and eyes that auk'd 
"What is it?" but that oarsman's haggard face. 
As hard and still as is the face that men 
Shape to their fancy's eye from broken rocks 
On some cliff-side, appall'd them, and they said, 
"He is enchanted, cannot speak — and she. 
Look how she sleeps — the Fairy Queeu, so fair ! 
Yea, but how pale! what are they? flesh aud blood? 
Or come to take the King to Fairyland ? 
For some do hold our Arthur cannot die. 
But that he passes into Fairyland." 

While thus they babbled of the King, the King 
Came girt with knights : then turn'd the tougueless 

man 
From the half-face to the full eye, and rose 
Aud pointed to the damsel, and the doors. 
So Arthur bade the meek Sir Percivale -"^ 
Aud pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid;X^ 
Aud reverently they bore her iuto hall. 
Then came the flue Gawain aud wonder'd at her, 
And Lancelot later came and muF'id at her, 
Aud last the Queeu herself, aud pitied her : 
But Arthur spied the letter in her hand, 
Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it ; this was all : 

"Most noble lord, Sir Lancelot of the Lake, 
I, sometime call'd the maid of Astolat, 
Come, for you left me taking no farewell. 
Hither, to take my last farewell of you. 
I loved you, and my love had no return. 
And therefore my true love has been my death. 
And therefore to our Lady Guinevere, 
And to all other ladies, I make moau. 
Pray for my soul, and yield me burial. 
Pray for my soul thou too. Sir Laucelot, 
As thou art a kuight peerless." 

Thus he read , 
And ever in the reading, lords and dames 
Wept, looking often from his face who read 
To hers which lay so silent, and at times. 
So touch'd were they, half-thinking that her lips, 
Who had devised the letter, moved agaiu. 



LANCELOT AND ELAINE. 



101 



Thea freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them all : 
"My lord liege Arthur, aud all ye that hear, 
Know that for this most gentle maiden's death 
Ilight heavy am I; for good she was aud true, 
But loved me with a love beyond all love 
In woman, whomsoever I have known. 
Ypt to be loved makes not to love again ; 
Not at my years, however it hold in youth. 
I swear by truth and k'aighthot)d that I gave 
No cause, not willingly, for such a love: 
To this I call my friends in testimony, 
Her brethren, and her father, who himself 
Besought me to be plain and blunt, and use, 
To break her passion, some discourtesy 
Against my nature : what I could, I did. 
1 left her, and I bade her no farewell ; 
Tho', had I dreamt the damsel would have died, 
I might have put my wits to some roixgh use, 
And help'd her from herself." 

Then said the Queen 
(Sea was her wrath, yet working after storm), 
" Ye might at least have done her so much grace. 
Fair lord, as would have help'd her from her death." 
He raised his head, their eyes met and hers fell. 
He adding, 

"Queen, she would not be content 
Save that I wedded her, which could not be. 
Then miirht she follow me thro' the world, she 

ask^a : 
It could not be. I told her that her love 
Was but the flash of youth, would darken down 
To rise hereafter in a stiller flame 
Toward one more worthy of her — then would I, 
More specially were he, she wedded, poor. 
Estate them with large land aud territory 
In mine own realm beyond the narrow seas. 
To keep them in all joyance : more than this 
I could uot ; this she would not, aud she died." 

He pausing, Arthur answer'd, " O my knight. 
It will be to thy worship, as my knight. 
And mine, as head of all our Table Round, 
To see that she be buried worshipfully." 

So toward that shrine which then in all the 
realm 
Was richest, Arthur leading, s^iwly went 
The raarshall'd Order of their Table Round, 
And Lancelot sad beyoud his wont, to see 
The maiden buried, not as one unknown, 
Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies, 
Aud mass, and rolling mu.-'^, like a quoen. 
Aud when the knights had laid her comely head 
Low in the dust of half-forgotten kings. 
Then Arthur spake among them, "Let her tomb 
Be costly, and her image thereupon. 
And let the shield of Lancelot at her feet 
Be carven, and her lily in her hand. 
And let the story of her dolorous voyage 
For all true hearts be blazou'd on her tomb 
In letters gold and azure !" which was wrought 
Thereafter ; but when now the lords and dames 
And people from the high door streaming, brake 
Disorderly, as homeward each, the Queen, 
"Who mark'd Sir Lancelot where he moved apart. 
Drew near, and sigh'd in passing, " Lancelot, 
Forgive me ; mine was jealousy in love." 
He answer'd with his eyes upon the ground, 
"That is love's curse; pass on, my Queen, forgiv- 
en." 
But Arthur, who beheld his cloudy brows, 
Approach'd him, and with full affection said, 

" Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom I have 
Most joy and most affiance, for I know 
13 



Whiit thou hast been in battle by my side, 

Aud many a time have watch'd thee at the tilt 

Strike down the lusty aud long-practised knight, 

And let the younger and unskill'd go by 

To win his honor and to make his name, 

Aud loved thy courtesies and thee, a man 

Made to be loved ; but now I would to God, 

Seeing the homeless trouble in thine eyes, 

Thou couldst have loved this maiden, shaped, it 

seems, 
By God for thee alone, and from her face. 
If one may judge the living by the dead. 
Delicately pure and marvellously fair. 
Who might have brought thee, now a lonely man. 
Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons 
Born to the glory of thy name aud fame, 
My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the Lake." 

Then answer'd Lancelot, "Fair she was, my King, 
Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. 
To doubt her fairness were to want an eye. 
To doubt her pureuess were to want a heart — 
Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love 
Could bind him, but free love will uot be bound." 

"Free love, so bound, were freest," said the King. 
"Let love be free; free love is for the best: 
And, after heaven, ou our dull side of death. 
What should be best, if not so pure a love 
Clothed iu so pure a loveliness? yet thee 
She fail'd to bind, tho' being, as I think. 
Unbound as yet, aud gentle, as I know." 

And Lancelot answer'd nothing, but he went, 
Aud at the inruuuing of a little brook 
Sat by the river in a cove, and watch'd 
The high reed wave, and lifted up his eyes 
And saw the barge that brought her moving down. 
Far-off, a blot upon the stream, and said 
Low in himself, "Ah, simple heart and sweet, 
Ye loved me, damsel, surely with a love 
Far tenderer than my Queen's. Pray for thy soul ? 
Ay, that will I. Farewell too — now at last — 
Farewell, fair lily. 'Jealousy in love?' 
Not rather dead love's harsh heir, jealous pride ? 
Queen, if I grant the jealousy as of love, 
May not your crescent fear for name aud fame 
Speak, as it waxes, of a love that wanes? 
Why did the King dwell on my name to me? 
Miue own name shames me, seeming a reproach, 
Lancelot, whom the Lady of the Lake 
Caught from his mother's arms — the wondrous one 
Who passes thro' the vision of the night — 
She chanted snatches of mysterious hymns 
Heard im the winding waters, eve aud morn 
She kiss'd me, saying, 'Thou art fair, my chila. 
As a king's sou,' and often in her arms 
She bare me, pacing on the dusky mere. 
Would she had drowu'd me in it, where'er it be ! 
For what am I ? what profits me my name 
Of greatest knight ? I fought for it, and have it : 
Pleasure to have it, none ; to lose it, pain : 
Now grown a part of nie : but what use in it ? 
To make men worse by making my sin knowu ? 
Or sin seem less, the sinner seeming great? 
Alas for Arthur's greatest knight, a man 
Not after Arthur's heart ! I needs must break 
These bonds that so defame me: not without 
She wills it: would I, if she will'd it? nay, 
Who knows? but if I would not, then may God, 
I pray him, send a sudden Angel down 
To seize me by the hair and liear me far, 
And fling me deep in that forgotten mere. 
Among the tumbled fragments of the hills." 

So groan'd Sir Lancelot in remorseful pain, 
Not knowing he should die a holy man. 



192 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 

From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done 
lu tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale, 
Whom Arthur and his knighthood call'd The Pure, 
Had pass'd into the silent life of prayer, 
Praise, fast, and alms ; and leaving for the cowl 
The helmet in an abbey far away 
From Camelot, there, and not long after, died. 

And one, a fellow-monk among the rest, 
Ambrosius, loved liim much beyond the rest. 
And honor'd him, and wrought into his heart 
A way by love that waken'd love within. 
To answer that which came: and as they sat 
Beneath a M'orld-old yew-tree, darkening half 
The cloist^ers, on a gustful April morn 
That puff'd the swaying branches into smoke 
Above them, ere the summer when he died. 
The monk Ambrosias queslion'd Percivale : 

" O brother, I have seen this yew-tree smoke, 
Spring after spring, for half a hundred years: 
For never have I known the world without, 
Nor ever stray'd beyond the pale : but thee. 
When first thou earnest — such a courtesy 
Spake thro' the limbs and iu the voice — I knew 
For one of those who eat in Arthnr's hall ; 
For good ye are and bad, and like to coins, 
Some true, some light, but every one of you 
Stamp'd wiih the image of the King; and now 
Tell me, what drove thee from the Table Round, 
My brother ? was it earthly passion crost ?" 

"Nay," said the knight; "for no such passion 
mine. 
But the sweet vision of the Holy Grail 
Drove me from all vainglories, rivalries. 
And earthly heats that spnng and sparkle out 
Among us iu the jousts, while womeu watch 
Who wins, who falls ; and waste the spiritual strength 
Within us, better offer'd up to Heaven." 

To whom the monk: "The Holy Grail !— I trust 
We are greeu iu Heaven's eyes ; but here too much 
We moulder — as to things without I mean — 
Yet one of your own knights, a guest of ours, 
Told us of this in our refectory, 
But spake with such a sadness and so low 
We heard not half of what he said. What is It? 
The phantom of a cup that comes and goes ?" 

"Nay, monk ! what phantom ?" answer'd Percivale. 
"The cup, the cup itself, from which our Lord 
Drank at the last sad snpper with his own. 
This, from the blessed laud of Aromat — 
After the day of darkness, when the dead 
Went wandering o'er Moriah— the good saint, 
Arimathsean Joseph, journeying brought 
To Glastonbury, where the winter thorn 
Blossoms at Christmas, mindful of our Lord. 
And there awhile it bode ; and if a man 
Could touch or see it, he was heal'd at once. 
By faith, of all his ills. But then the times 
Grew to such evil that the Holy Cup 
Was caught away to Heaven, and disappear'd." 

To whom the monk : "From our old books I know 
That Joseph came of old to Glastonbnry, 
And there the heathen Prince, Arviragus, 
(Jave him an isle of marsh whereon to build; 
And there he built with wattl es from the marsh 
A little lonely church iu days of yore. 
For so they say, these books of ours, but seem 
Mlite of this miracle, far as I have read. 
But who first saw the Holy Thing to-day f" 

"A woman," answer'd Percivale, "a nun. 



And one no further oflf iu blood from me 
Than sister ; and if ever holy maid 
With knees of adoration wore the stone, 
A holy maid ; tho' never maiden glow'd. 
But that was in her earlier maidenhood, 
With such a fervent flame of human love. 
Which being rudely blunted, glanced and shot 
Only to holy things ; to prayer and praise 
She gave herself, to fast and alms. And yet, 
Nun as she was, the scandal of the Court, 
Sin against Arthur and the Table Round, 
And the strange sound of an adulterous race, 
Across the iron grating of her cell 
Beat, and she pray'd and fasted all the more. 

"And he to whom she told her sins, or what 
Her all bnt utter whiteuess held for sin, 
A man welluigh a hundred winters old, 
Spake often with her of the Holy Grail, 
A legend handed down thro' five or six, 
And each of these a hundred winters old, 
From our Lord's time. And when King Arthur made 
His Table Round, and all men's hearts became 
Clean for a season, surely he had thought 
That now the Holy Grail would come again ; 
But sin broke out. Ah, Christ, that it w(Uild come, 
And heal the world of all their wickedness ! 
'O Father!' ask'd the maiden, 'might it come 
To me by prayer and fasting?' 'Nay,' said he, 
'I know not, for thy heart is pure as snow.' 
And so she pray'd and fasted, till the sun 
Shone, and the wind blew, thro' her, and I thought 
She might have risen and floated when I saw her. 

"For on a day she sent to speak with me. 
And when she came to speak, beliold her eyes 
Beyond my knowing of them, beautiful. 
Beyond all knowing of them, wonderful, 
Beautiful in the light of holiness, 
And 'O my brother Percivale,' she said, 
'Sweet brother, I have seen the Holy Grail: 
For, waked at dead of night, I heard a sound 
As of a silver horn from o'er the hills 
Blown, and I thought, "It is not Arthnr's use 
To hunt by moonlight ;" and the .slender sound 
As from a distance beyond distance grew 
Coming upon me. Oh, never harp nor horn. 
Nor aught we blow with breath or touch with hand, 
Was like that music as it came ; and then 
Stream'd thro' my cell a cold and silver beam, 
And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail, 
Rose-red with beatinsrs in it, as if alive. 
Till all the white walls of my cell were dyed 
With rosy colors leaping on the wall ; 
And then the music faded, and the Grail 
Past, and the beam decay'd, and from the walls 
The rosy quiverings died into the night. 
So now the Holy Thing is here again 
Among us, brother, fast thou too and pray, 
And tell thy brother knights to fast and pray. 
That so perchance the vision may be seen 
By thee and those, and all the world be heal'd.' 

"Then leaving the pale nun, I spake of this 
To all men ; and myself fasted and pray'd 
Always, and many among us many a week 
Fasted and pray'd even to the uttermost, 
Expectant of the wonder that would be. 

"And one there was among us, ever moved 
Among us iu white armor, Galahad. 
'God make thee good as thou art beautiful,' 
Said Arthur, when he djibW him knight; and none, 
In so young youth, was ever made a knight 
Till Galahad ; and this Galahad, when he heard 
Aly sister's vision, fill'd me with amaze; 
His eyes became so like her own, they seem'd 
Hers, and binieelf her brother more than L 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



193 



"Sister or brother none had he; but some 
Call'd him a sou of Lancelot, and some said 
Begotten by enchantment — chatterers theyA 
ftyike birds of passage piping up and down, j 
"That gape for flies — we know not wlience they come ; 
For when was Lancelot wauderingly lewd ? 

" But she, the wan sweet maiden, shore away 
Clean from her forehead all that wealth of hair 
Which made a silken mat-work for her feet ; 
And out of this she plaited broad and long 
A strong sword-belt, and wove with silver thread 
And crimson, in the belt a strange device, 
A crimson grail within a silver beam : 
And saw the bright boy-kuight, and bound it on 

him, 
Saying, *My knight, my love, my knight of Heaven, 
O thou, my love, whose love is one with mine, 
I, maiden, round thee, maiden, bind my belt. 
Go forth, for thou shalt see what I have seen. 
And break thro' all, till one will crown thee king 
Far in the spiritual city :' and as she spake 
She sent the deathless passion in her eyes 
Tliro' him, and made him hers, and laid her mind 
On him, and he believed in her belief. 

"Tlien came a year of miracle: O brother. 
In our great hall there stood a vacant chair, 
Fashiou'd by Merlin ere he past away, 
And carven with strange figures , and in and out 
(The figures, like a serpent,) ran a gctoU 
Of letters in a tongue no man could read. 
And Merlin call'd it 'The Siege perilous,' 
Perilous for good and ill ; ' for there,' he said, 
•No man could sit but he should lose himself:' 
And once by misadvertence Merlin sat 
In his own chair, and so was lost; but he, 
Galahad, when he heard of Merlin's doom. 
Cried, ' If I lose myself I save myself !' 

"Then on a summer night it came to pass, 
While the great banquet lay along the hall. 
That Galahad would sit down in Merlin's chair. 

"And all at once, as there we sat, we heard 
A cracliing and a rjving of the roofs, 
And rending, and a blast, and overhead 
Thnnder, and in the thunder was a cry. 
And in the blast there smote along the hall 
A beam of light seven times more clear than day: 
And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail 
All over cover'd with a luminous cloud. 
And none might see who bare it, and it past. 
But every knight beheld his fellow's face 
As in a glory, and all the knights arose. 
And staring each at other like dumb men 
Stood, till I found a voice and sware a vow. 

" I sware a vow before them all, that T, 
Because I had not seen the Grail, would ride 
A twelvemonth and a day in quest of it. 
Until I found and saw it, as the nun 
My sister saw it ; and Galahad sware the vow, 
And good Sir Bors, our Lancelot's cousin, sware. 
And Lancelot sware, and many among the knights, 
And Gawaiu sware, and louder than the rest." 

Then spake the monk Ambrosius, asking him, 
" What said the King ? Did Arthur take the vow ?" 

" Nay, for my lord," said Percivale, " the King, 
Was not in hall : for early that same day, 
Scaped thro' a cavern from a bandit hold, 
An outraged maiden sprang into the hall 
Crying on helo : for all her shining hair 
Was smear'd with earth, and either milky arm 
Ked-rent with hooks of bramble, and all she wore 
Torn as a sail that leaves the rope is torn 



In tempest : so the King arose and went 
To smoke the scandalous hive of those wild bees 
That made such honey in his realm. Howbeit 
Some little of this marvel he too saw, 
Returning o'er the plain that then began 
To darken under Camelot ; whence the King 
Look'd up, calling aloud, ' Lo, there ! the roofs 
Of our great hall are roll'd in thunder-smoke ! 
Pray Heaven, they be not smitten by the bolt.' 
For dear to Arthur was that hall of ours, 
As having there so oft with all his knights 
Feasted, and as the stateliest under heaveu. 

"O brother, had you known our mighty hall, 
Which Merlin built for Arthur long ago! 
For all the sacred mount of Camelot, 
And all the dim rich city, roof by roof, 
Tower after tower, spire beyond spire, 
By grove, and garden-lawn, and rushing brook, 
Climbs to the mighty hall that Merlin built. 
And four great zones of sculpture, set betwixt 
With many a mystic symbol, gird the hall : 
And in the lowest beasts are slaying men. 
And in the second men are slaying beasts, 
And on the third are warriors, perfect men, 
And on the fourth are men with growing wings, 
And over all one statue iu the monld 
Of Arthur, made by Merlin, with a crown, 
And peak'd wings pointed to the Northern Star. 
And eastward fronts the statue, and the crown 
And both the wings are made of gold, and flame 
At sunrise till the people in far fields. 
Wasted so often by the heathen hordes, 
Behold it, crying, 'We have still a King.' 

"And, brother, had yon known our hall within, 
Broader and higher than any in all the lands ! 
Where twelve great windows blazon Arthur's wars, 
And all the light that falls upon the board 
Streams thro' the twelve great battles of our King. 
Nay, one there is, and at the eastern end. 
Wealthy with wandering lines of mount and mere, 
Where Arthur finds the brand Excalibnr. 
And also one to the west, and counter to it, 
And blank: and who shall blazon it? when and 

how? — 
Oh, there, perchance, when all our wars are done. 
The brand Excalibnr will be cast away. 

"So to this hall full quickly rode the King, 
In horror lest the work by Merlin wrought. 
Dreamlike, should on the sudden vanish, wrapt 
In uuremorseful folds of rolling fire. 
And iu he rode, and up I glanced, and saw 
The golden dragon sparkling over all : 
And many of those who burnt the hold, their arms 
Hack'd, and their foreheads grimed with smoke, and 

sear'd, 
Follow'd, and in among bright faces, ours. 
Full of the visicra, prest: and then the King 
Spake to me, being nearest, ' Percivale ' 
(Because the hall was all in tumult— some 
Vowing, and some protesting), ' what is this ?' 

"O brother, when I told him what had chanced. 
My sister's vision, and the rest, his face 
Darken'd, as I have seen it more than once. 
When some brave deed seem'd to be done in vain. 
Darken ; and ' Woe is me, my knights,' he cried, 
' Had I been here, ye had not sworn the vow.' 
Bold was mine answer, 'Had thyself been here, 
My King, thou wouldst have sworn.' 'Yea, yea,' 

said he, 
'Art thou so bold and hast not seen the Grail ?' 

"'Nay, lord, I heard the sound, I saw the light. 
But since I did not see the Holy Thing, 
I sware a vow to follow it till I saw.' 



194 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



"Theu when he ask'd us, knight, by knight, if any 
Had seen it, all their answers were as one: 
' Nay, lord, and therefore have we sworn our vows.' 

"'Lo, now,' said Arthur, 'have yon seen a cloud? 
What go ye into the wilderness to see ?' 

"Then Galahad on the sudden, and in a voice 
Shrilling along the hall to Arthur, call'd, 
'But I, Sir Arthur, saw the Holy Grail, 
I saw the Holy Grail and heard a cry— 
" O Galahad, and O Galahad, follow me." ' 

"'Ah, Galahad, Galahad,' said the King, 'for such 
As thou art is the vision, not for these. 
Thy holy nun and thou have seen a sign — 
Holier is none, my Percivale, than she — 
A sign to maim this Order which I made. 
But ye, that follow but the leader's bell' 
(Brother, the King was hard upon his knights) 
'Taliessin is our fullest throat of song. 
And one hath sung and all the dumb will sing. 
Lancelot is Lancelot, and hath overborne 
Five knights at once, and every younger knight, 
Unproven, holds himself as Lancelot, 
Till overborne by one, he learns— and ye, 
What are ye? Galahads ?— no, nor Percivales' 
(For thus it pleased the King to range me close 
After Sir Galahad) ; 'nay,' said he, 'but men 
With strength and will to right the wrong'd, of power 
To lay the sudden heads of vit)lence flat, 
Knights that in twelve great battles splash'd and 

dyed 
The strong White Horse in his own heathen blood — 
But one hath seen, and all the blind will see. 
Go, since your vows are sacred, being made: 
Yet — for ye know the cries of all my realm 
Pass thro' this hall — how often, O my knights, 
Your places being vacant at my side, 
This chance of noble deeds will come and go 
Unchallenged, while ye follow wandering tires 
Lost in the quagmire I Many of you, yea most, 
Return no more : ye think I show myself 
Too dark a prophet: come now, let us meet 
The morrow morn once more in one full lield 
Of gracious pastime, that once more the King, 
Before ye leave him for this Quest, may count 
The yet unbroken strength of all his knights. 
Rejoicing iu that Order which he made.' 

"So when the sun broke next from under ground, 
All the great table of our Arthur closed 
And clash'd in such a tourney and so full. 
So many lances broken — never yet 
Had Camelot seen the like, since Arthur came ; 
And I myself and Galahad, for a strength 
Was in us from the vision, overthrew 
So many knights that the people cried. 
And almost burst the barriers in their heat, 
Shouting, 'Sir Galahad and Sir Percivale!' 

"But when the next day brake from underground— 
O brother, had you known our Camelot, 
Built by old kings, age after age, so old 
The King himself had fears that it would fall. 
So strange, and rich, and dim ; for where the roofs 
Totter'd toward each other in the sky. 
Met foreheads all along the street of those 
Who watch'd us pass; and lower, and where the long 
Rich galleries, lady-laden, weigh'd the necks 
Of dragmis clinging to the crazy walls. 
Thicker than drops from thunder, showers of flowers 
Fell as we past ; and men and boys astride 
On wyvern, lion, dragon, griiHn, swan. 
At all the corners, named trs each by name, 
Calling 'God speed !' but in the ways below 
The knights and ladies wept, and rich and poor 
Wept, and the King himself could hardly speak 



For grief, and all in middle street the Queen, 
Who rode by Lancelot, wail'd and shriek'd aloud, 
'This madness has come on us for our sine.' 
So to the Gate of the three Queens we came, 
Where Arthur's wars are render'd mystically, 
And thence departed every one his way. 

"And I was lifted up in heart, and thought 
Of all my late-shown prowess iu the lists. 
How my strong lance had beaten down the knights, 
So many and famous names ; and never yet 
Had heaven appear'd so blue, nor earth so green, 
For all my blood danced in me, and I knew 
That 1 should light upon the Holy Grail. 

"Thereafter the dark warning of our King, 
That most of us would follow wandering fires, 
Came like a driving gloom across my mind. 
Then every evil word I had spoken once. 
And every evil thought I had thought of old. 
And every evil deed I ever did. 
Awoke and cried, 'This Quest is not for thee.' 
And lifting up mine eyes, I found myself 
Alone, and in a laud of sand and thorns. 
And I was thirsty even unto death ; 
And I, too, cried, 'This Quest is not for thee.' 

"And on I rode, and when I thought my thirst 
Would slay me, saw deep lawns, and then a oiook, 
With one sharp rapid, where the crisping white 
Play'd ever back upon the sloping wave. 
And took both ear and eye ; and o'er the brook 
Were apple-trees, and apples by the brook 
Fallen, and on the lawns. 'I will rest here,' 
I said, ' I am not worthy of the Quest ;' 
But even while I drank the brook, and ate 
The goodly apples, all these things at once 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone. 
And thirsting, in a laud of sand and thorns. 

"And then behold a w(mian at a door 
Spinning; and fair the house whereby she sal. 
And kind the woman's eyes and innocent. 
And all her bearing gracious ; and she rose 
Opening her arms to meet me, as who should sa» 
' Rest here ;' but when I touch'd her, lo ! she, too. 
Fell into dust and nothing, and the house 
Became no belter than a broken shed. 
And in it a dead babe ; and also this 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone. 

"And on 1 rode, and greater was my thirst. 
Then flash'd a yellow gleam across the world. 
And where it smote the ploughshare in the field, 
The ploughman left his ploughing, and fell dowu 
Before it; where it glitter'd on her pail, 
The milkmaid left her milking, and fell dowu 
Before it, and I knew not why, but thought 
'Tlie sun is rising,' Iho' the sun had risen. 
Then was I ware of one that on me moved 
In golden armor with a crown of gold 
About ii casque all jewels ; and his horse 
In golden armor jewell'd everywhere: 
Add on the splendor came, flashing me blind ; 
And seem'd to me the Lord of all the world. 
Being so huge. But when I thought he meant 
To crush me, moving on me, lo ! he, too, 
Open'd his arms to embrace me as he came. 
And up I went and touch'd him, and he, too, 
Fell into dust, and I was left alone 
And wearying in a laud of sand and thorns. 

"And I rode on and found a mighty hill, 
And on the top, a city wail'd: the spires 
Piick'd with incredible pinnacles into heaven. 
And by the g;iteway stirr'd a crowd; and these 
Cried to me climbing, 'Welcome, Percivale! 
Thou mightiest and thou purest among men!' 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



195 



And glnd was I and clomb, but found at top 

No niau, nor any v( ice. And thence I past 

Far thro' a ruinous city, and I saw 

That man had once dwell there ; but there I found 

Only one man of an exceeding age. 

'Where is that goodly company,' said I, 

'That so cried out upon me?' and he had 

Scarce any voice to answer, and yet gasp'd, 

'Whence and what art thou?' and even as he spoke 

Fell into dust, and disappear'd, and I 

Was left alone once more, and cried in grief, 

'Lo, if I tind the Holy Grail itself 

And touch it, it will crumble into dnst.' 

"And thence I dropt into a lowly vale. 
Low as the hill was high, and where the vale 
Was lowest, found a chapel, and thereby 
A holy hermit in a hermitage. 
To whom I told my phantoms, and he said : 

"'O son, thou hast not true humility, 
The highest virtue, mother of them all ; 
For when the Lord of all things made himself 
Naked of glory for His mortal change, 
"Take thou my robe," she said, "'for all is thine," 
And all her form shone forth with sudden light 
So that the angels were amazed, and she 
Follow'd him down, and like a flying star 
Led on the gray-hair'd wisdom o{ the East ; 
But her thou hast not known : for what is this 
Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins ? 
Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself 
As Galahad.' When the hermit made an end, 
In silver armor suddenly Galahad shone 
Before us, and against the cliapel door 
Laid lance, and enter'd, and we knelt in prayer. 
And there the hermit slaked my burning thirst, 
And at th^acring of the mass I saw 
The holy erew^twalone ; but he, 
'Saw ye no more? I, Galahad, saw the Grail, 
The Holy Grail, desc^id upon the shrine: 
I saw the flery face as of a child 
That smote itself into the bread and went; 
And hither am I come ; and never yet 
Hath what thy sister taught me first to see, 
This Holy Thing, fail'd from my side, nor come 
Cover'd, but moving with me night and day, 
Fainter by day, but always in the night 
Blood-red, and sliding down the blacken'd marsh 
Blood-red, and on the naked mountain top 
Blood-red, and in the sleeping mere below 
Blood-red. And in the strength of this I rode. 
Shattering all evil customs everywhere, 
And past thro' Pagan realms, and made them mine, 
And clash'd with Pagan hordes, and bore them down. 
And broke thro" all, and in the strength of this 
Come victor. But my time is hard at hand, 
And hence I go ; and one will crown me king 
Far in the spiritual city; and come thou, too, 
For thou shall see the vision when I go.' 

"While thus he spake, his eye, dwelling on mine. 
Drew me, with power upon me, till I grew 
One with him, to believe as he believed. 
Then, when the day began to W|ne, we went. 

"There rose a hill that none but man could climb, 
Scarr'd with a hundred wintry watercourses — 
Storm at the top, and when we gain'd it, storm 
Round us and death ; for every moment glanced 
His silver arms and gluoin'd : so quick and tliick 
The lightnings here and there to left and right 
Struck, till the dry old trunks about us, dead. 
Yea, rotten with a hundred years of death. 
Sprang into fire : and at the base we found 
On either hand, as far as eye could see, 
A great black swamp and of an evil smell, 
Part black, part whiteu'd with the bones of men, 



Not to be crost, save that some ancient king 

Had built a way, where, link'd with many a bridge, 

A thousand piers ran into the great Sea. 

And Galahad fled along them bridge by bridge, 

And every bridge as quickly as he crost 

Sprang into fire and vanish'd, tho' I ycarn'd 

To follow ; and thrice above him all the heavens 

Open'd and blazed with thnnder such as seem"d 

Shoutings of all the sons of God : and first 

At once I saw him fur on the great Sea, 

In silver-shining armor starry-clear; 

And o'er his Uead the holy vessel hung 

Clothed in while samite or a luminous cloud. 

And with exceeding swiftness ran the boat. 

If boat it were — I saw not whence it came. 

And when the heavens open'd and blazed again 

Roaring, I saw him like a silver star — 

And had he set the sail, or had the boat 

Become a living creature clad with wings ? 

And o'er his head the Holy Vessel hung 

Redder than any mse, a joy to me. 

For now I knew the veil had been withdrawn. 

Then in a moment when they blazed again 

Opening, I saw the least of little stars 

Down on the waste, and straight beyond the star 

I saw the spiritual city and all her spires 

And gateways in a glory like one pearl — 

No larger, tho' the goal of all the saints — 

Strike from the sea ; and from the star there shot 

A rose-red sparkle to the city, and there 

Dwelt, and I knew it was the Holy Grail, 

Which never eyes on earth again shall see. 

Then fell the floods of heaven drowning the deep. 

And how my feet recrosl the deathful ridge 

No memory in me lives; lint that I touch'd 

The chapel-doors at dawn I know ; and thence 

Taking my war-horse from the holy man, 

Glad that no phantom vext me more, return'd 

To whence I came, the gate of Arthur's wars." 

"O brother," ask'd Ambrosius— "for in sooth 
These ancient books (and they would win thee) 

teem, 
Only I find not there this Holy Grail, 
With^iiracles and marvels like to these. 
Not all unlike ; which oftentime I read. 
Who read but on my breviary with ease. 
Till my head swims ; and then go forth and pass 
Down to the little thorpe that lies so close. 
And almost plaster'd like a martin's nest 
To these old walls, and mingle with our folk; 
And knowing every honest face of theirs 
As well as ever shepherd knew his sheep, 
And every hcmiely secret in their hearts. 
Delight myself with gossip and old wives, 
And ills and aches, and teethings, lyings-in, 
And mirthful sayings, children of the place, 
That have no meaning half a league away: 
Or lulling randcmi squabbles when they rise, 
Chafferings and chatterings at the market-cross, 
Rejoice, small man, in this small world of mine, 
Yea, even in their hens and in their eggs — 
O brother, saving this Sir Galahad, 
Came ye on none but phantoms in your quest, 
No man, no woman ?" 

Then Sir Percivale : 
"All men, to one so bound by such a vow. 
And women were as phantoms. O my brother, 
Why wilt thou shame me to confess to thee 
How far I falter'd from my quest and vow ? 
For after I had lain so many nights, 
A bedmate of the snail and eft and snake. 
In grass and burdock, I was changed to wan 
And meagre, and tlie vision had not come ; 
And then I chanced upon a goodly town 
With one great dwelling in the middle of it; 
Thither I made, and there was I disarm'd 



196 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



By maidens each as fair as any flower : 

But when they led me Into hall, behold, 

The Princess of that castle was the one. 

Brother, and that one only, who had ever 

Made my heart leap ; for when 1 moved of old 

A slender page about her father's hall, 

And she a slender maiden, all my heart 

Went after her with longing: yet we twain 

Had never kiss'd a kiss, or vow'd a vow. 

And now I came upon her once again, 

And one had wedded her, and he was dead. 

And all his land and wealth and state were hers. 

And while I tarried, eveiy day she set 

A banquet richer than the day before 

By me; for all her longing and her will 

Was toward me as of old ; till one fair morn, 

I walking to and fro beside a stream 

That flash'd across her orchard underneath 

Her castle-walls, she stole upon my walk, 

And calling me the greatest of all knights, 

Embraced me, and so kiss'd me the tirst time, 

Aud gave herself and all her wealth to me. 

Then I remember'd Arthur's warning word, 

That most of us would follow wandering fires, 

And the truest faded in my heart. Anon, 

The heads of all her people drew to me. 

With supplication both of knees and tongue: 

' We have heard of thee : thou art our greatest knight, 

Our Lady says it, aud we well believe : 

Wed thou onr Lady, and rule over us. 

And thou shalt be as Arthur in our land.' 

me, my brother ! but one night my vow 
Burnt me within, so that I rose and fled. 

But wail'd and wept, and hated mine own self, 
Aud ev'n the Holy Quest, and all but her ; 
Then after I was joiu'd with Galahad 
Cared not for her, nor anything upon earth." 

Then said the monk, "Poor men, when yule is cold, 
Must be content to sit by little fires. 
And this am I, so that ye care for me 
Ever so little; yea, and blest be Heaven 
That brought thee here to this poor house of ours. 
Where all the brethren are so hard, to warm 
My cold heart with a friend: but oh, the pity 
To find thine own first love once more — to hold. 
Hold her a wealthy bride within thine arms, 
Or all but hold, and then — cast her aside. 
Foregoing all her sweetness, like a weed. 
For we that want the warmth of double life. 
We that are plagued with dreams of something sweet 
Beyond all sweetness in a life so rich, — 
Ah, blessed Lord, I speak too earthlywise, 
Seeing I never stray'd beyond the cell. 
But live like an old badger in his earth, 
Witii earth about him everywhere, despite 
All fast and penance. Saw ye none beside ? 
None of your knights ?" 

"Yea so," said Percivale: 
"One night my pathway swerving east, I saw 
The pelican on the casque of our Sir Bors 
All in the middle of the rising moon : 
Aud toward him spurr'd, and hail'd him, and he me. 
And each made joy of either ; then he ask'd, 
'Where is he? hast thou seen him — Lancelot? — Once,' 
Said good Sir Bors, 'he dash'd across nie— mad, 
And maddening what he rode: and when I cried, 
" Eldest thou then so hotly on a quest 
So holy," Lancelot shouted, "Stay me not! 

1 have been the sluggard, and I ride apace. 
For now there is a lion iu the way." 

!?o vauish'd.' 

"Then Sir Bors had ridden on 
f.oftly, and sorrowing for our Lancelot, 
Because his former madness, once the talk 
And scandal of onr table, had returu'd ; 



For Lancelot's kith and kin so worship him 
That ill to him is ill to them ; to Bors 
Beyond the rest: he well had been content 
Not to have seen, so Lancelot might have seen 
The Holy Cup of healing ; and, indeed. 
Being so clouded with his grief and love. 
Small heart was his after the Holy Quest : 
If God would send the vision, well : if not, 
The Quest and he were in the hands of Heaven, 

"And then, with small adventure met, Sir Bors 
Rode to the lonest tract of all the realm. 
And found a people there among their crags. 
Our race and blood, a remnant that were left 
Paynim amid their circles, and the stones 
They pitch up straight to heaven : and their wise men 
Were strong in that old magic which can trace 
The wandering of the stars, and scoff"d at him 
And this high Quest as at a simple thing: 
Told him he follow'd — almost Arthur's words — 
A mocking fire : ' what other fire than he. 
Whereby the blood beats, and the blossom blows, 
And the sea rolls, and all the world is warm'd?' 
And when his answer chafed them, the rough crowd. 
Hearing he had a difi'erence with their priests. 
Seized him, and bound and plunged him into a cell 
Of great piled stones ; and lying bouuden there 
In darkness thro' innumerable hours 
He heard the hollow-ringing heavens sweep 
Over him, till by miracle— what else? — 
Heavy as it was, a great stone slii)t and fell. 
Such as no wind could move : aud thro' the gap 
Glimmer'd the streaming scud: then came a night 
Still as the day was loud ; and thro' the gap 
The seven clear stars of Arthur's Table Round — 
For, brother, so one night, because they roll 
Thro' such a round in heaven, we named the stars, 
Rejoicing in ourselves and in our King — 
And these, like bright eyes of familiar friends, 
In on him shone : ' And then to me, to me,' 
Said good Sir Bors, ' beyond all hopes of mine, 
Who scarce had pray'd or ask'd it ftn- myself — 
Across the seven clear stars — oh, grace to me — 
In color like the fingers of a hand 
Before a buruing taper, the sweet Grail 
Glided and past, and close upon it peal'd 
A sharp quick thunder.' Afierwards, a maid. 
Who kept our holy faith among her kin 
In secret, entering, loosed and let him go." 

To whom the monk: "And I remember now 
That pelican on the casque ; Sir Bors it was 
Who si)ake so low and sadly at our board ; 
And mighty reverent at our grace was he : 
A square-set man and honest ; and his e3'e8. 
An outdoor sign of all the warmth within, 
Smiled with his lips — a smile beneath a cloud. 
But Heaven had meant it for a sunny one : 
Ay, ay. Sir Bors, who else ? But when ye reach'd 
The city, found ye all your knights returu'd, 
Or was there sooth in Arthur's prophecy. 
Tell me, and what said each, and what the King f 

Then answer'd Percivale: "And that can I, 
Brother, and truly; since the living words 
Of so great men as Lancelot and our King 
Pass not from door to door aad out again. 
But sit within the house. Oh, when we reach'd 
The city, our horses stumbling as they trod 
On heaps of ruin, hornless unicorns, 
Crack'd basilisks and splinter'd cockatrices. 
And shattei'd talbots, which had left the stones 
Raw, that they fell from, brought us to the hall, 

"And there sat Arthur on the dais-thronc, 
And those that had gone out upon the Quest, 
Wasted and worn, and but a tithe of them, 
Aud those that had not, stood before the King, 



THE HOLY GRAIL. 



197 



Who, when he saw me, rose, and bade me hail, 
Saying, 'A welfare in thine eye reproves 
Our fear of some disastrous chance for thee 
On hill, or plain, at sea, or flooding ford. 
So tierce a gale made havoc here of late 
Among the strange devices of our kings ; 
Yea, shook this newer, stronger hall of ours. 
And from the statue Merlin moulded for us 
Half-wrench'd a golden wing; but now— the Quest, 
This vision— hast thou seen ihe Holy Cup, 
That Joseph brought of old to Glastonbury?' 

" So when I told him all thyself hast heard, 
Ambrosius, and my fresh but tixt resolve 
To pass away into the quiet life, 
He answer'd not, but, sharply turning, ask'd 
Of Gawain, 'Gawaiu, was this Quest for thee?' 

'"Nay, lord,' said Gawain, 'not for such as I. 
Therefore I communed with a saintly man. 
Who made me sure the Quest was not for me ; 
For I was much awearied of the Quest: 
But found a silk pavilion in a field. 
And meny maidens in it ; and then this gale 
Tore my pavilion from the tentiug-pin. 
And blew my merry maidens all about 
With all discomfort; yea, and but for this. 
My twelvemonth and a day were pleasant to me.' 

" He ceased ; and Arthur turn'd to whom at first 
He saw not, for Sir Bors, on entering, pnsh'd 
Athwart the throng to Lancelot, caught his hand, 
Held it, and there, half-hidden by him, stood, 
Until the King espied him, saying to him, 
'Hail, Bors! if ever loyal man and true 
Could see it, thou hast seen the Grail ;' and Bors, 
'Ask me not, for I may not speak of it, 
I saw it :' and the tears were in his eyes. 

"Then there remain'd but Lancelot, for the rest 
Spake but of sundry perils in the storm ; 
Perhaps, like him of Cana in Holy Writ, 
Our Arthur kept his best until the last ; 
'Thou too, my Lancelot,' ask'd the King, 'my friend. 
Our mightiest, hath this Quest avail'd for thee ?' 

" ' Our mightiest !' answer'd Lancelot, with a groan ; 
'O King !'— and when he paused, methought I spied 
A dying fire of madness in hrs eyes^ 
'O King, my friend, if friend of thine I be. 
Happier are those that welter in their sin, 
Swine iu the mud, that cannot see for slinie. 
Slime of the ditch : but in me lived a sin 
So strange, of such a kind, that all of pure. 
Noble, and knightly iu me twined and clung 
Round that one sin, until the wholesome flower 
And poisonous grew together, each as each. 
Not to be pluck'd asunder; and when thy knights 
Sware, I sware with them only in the hope 
That tould I touch or see the Holy Grail 
They might be pluck'd asunder. Then I spake 
To one most holy saint, who wept and said. 
That save they could be pluck'd asunder, all 
My Quest were but in vain ; to whom I vow'd 
That I would work according as he will'd. 
And forth I went, and while I yearn'd and strove 
To tear the twain asunder in my heart. 
My madness came upon me as of old, 
And whipt me into waste fields far away. 
There was I beaten down by little men. 
Mean knights, to whom the moving of my sword 
And shadow of my spear had been enow 
To scare them from me once ; and then I came 
All in my folly to the naked shore. 
Wide flats, where nothing bnt coarse grasses grew. 
But such a blast, my King, began to blow, 
So loud a blast along the shore and sea. 
Ye could not hear the waters for the blast, 



Tho' heapt in mounds and ridges all the sea 

Drove like a cataract, and all the sand 

Swept like a river, and the clouded heavens 

'Were shaken with the motion and the sound. 

And bUickening iu the sea-foam sway'd a boat, 

Half-swallow'd in it, anchor'd with a chain ; 

And in my madness to myself I said, 

"I will embark and I will lose myself. 

And in the great sea wash away my sin." 

I burst the chain, 1 sprang into the boat. 

Seven days I drove ahing the dreary deep, 

And with me drove the moon and all the stars ; 

And the wind fell, and on the seventh night 

I heard the shiugle grinding in the surge. 

And felt the boat shock earth, and looking up, 

Behold, the enchanted towers of Carbonek, 

A castle like a rock upon a rock. 

With chasm-like portals open to the sea. 

And steps that met the breaker ! there was none 

Stood near it but a lion on each side 

That kept the entry, and the moon was full. 

Then from the boat I leapt, and up the stairs. 

There drew my sword. With sudden-flaring manes 

Those two great beasts rose upright like a man. 

Bach gript a shoulder, and I stood between ; 

And, when I would have smitten them, heard a voice, 

"Doubt not, go forward; if thou doubt, the beasts 

Will tear thee piecemeal.'' Then with violence 

The sword was dash'd from out my hand, and fell. 

And up into the sounding hall I past ; 

But nothing in the sounding hall I saw. 

No bench nor table, painting on the wall. 

Or shield of knight ; only the rounded moon 

Thro' the tall oriel on the rolling sea. 

But always in the quiet house I heard. 

Clear as a lark, high o'er me as a lark, 

A sweet voice singing in the topmost tower 

To the eastward : up I climb'd a thousand steps 

With pain : as in a dream I seem'd to climb 

For ever : at the last I reach'd a door, 

A light was in the crannies, and I heard, 

"Glory and joy and honor to our Lord 

And to the Holy Vessel of the Grail." 

Then iu my madness I essay'd the door: 

It gave ; and thro' a stormy glare, a heat 

As from a seventimes-heated furnace, I, 

Blasted and burnt, and blinded as I was, 

With such a fierceness that I swoon'd away— 

Oh, yet methought I saw the Holy Grail, 

All pall'd iu crimson, samite, and around 

Great angels, awful shapes, and wings and eyes. 

And but for all my madness and my sin. 

And then my swooning, I had sworn I saw 

That which I saw; but what I saw was veil'd 

And cover'd ; and this Quest was not for me.' 

"So speaking, and here ceasing, Lancelot left 
The hall long silent, till Sir Gawain — nay, 
Brother, I need not tell thee foolish words— 
A reckless and irreverent knight was he. 
Now bolden'd by the silence of his King — 
Well, I will tell thee: 'O King, my liege,' he said, 
'Hath Gawain fail'd in any quest of thine? 
When have I stinted stroke in foughten field ? 
But as for thine, my good friend Percivale, 
Thy holy nun and thou have driven men mad. 
Yea, made our mightiest madder than our least. 
But by mine eyes and by mine ears I swear, 
I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat. 
And thrice as blind as any noonday owl. 
To lioly virgius in their ecstasies. 
Henceforward.' 

" 'Deafer,' said the blameless King, 
'Gawain, and blinder unto holy things 
Hope not to make thyself by idle vows. 
Being too blind to have desire to see. 
But if indeed there came a sign from Heaven, 



198 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



Ble-^sed are Bors, Lancelot, and Percivale, 

For these have seen according to tlieir sight. 

P'or every liery prophet in old times, 

And all the sacred madness of the bard, 

When God made music thro' them, could but speak 

Ilis music by the framework and the chord ; 

And as ye saw it ye have spoken truth. 

"'Nay — but thou errest, Lancelot: never yet 
Could all of true and noble in kni<,'ht and inau 
Twine round one sin, whatever it might be, 
With such a closeness, but apart there grew. 
Save that he were the swine thou spakest of, 
Some root of knighthood and pure nobleness ; 
Whereto see thou, that it may bear its flower. 

'"And spake I not too truly, O my knights? 
Was I too dark a prophet when I said 
To those who went upon the Holy truest, 
That most of them would follow wandering fires. 
Lost in the quagmire?— lost to me and gone. 
And left me gazing at a barren board. 
And a lean Order— scarce retnrn'd a tithe— 
And out of those to whom the vision came 
My greatest hardly will believe he saw ; 
Another hath beheld it afar oflf. 
And leaving linnian wrongs to right themselves, 
Cares but to pass into the silent life. 
And one hath had the vision face to face. 
And now his chair desires him here in vain, 
However they may crown him otherwhere. 

"'And some among you held, that if the King 
Had seen the sitrht he would have sworn the vow : 
Not easily, seeing that the King must guard 
That which he rules, and is as but the hiud 
To whom a space of land is given to plough, 
Who may not wander from the allotted field 
Before his work be done ; but, being done, 
Let visions of the night or of the day 
Come, as they will; and many a time they come. 
Until this earth he walks on seems not earth. 
This light that strikes his eyeball is not light. 
This air that smites his fi)rehead is not air 
But vision — yea, his very hand and foot — 
In moments when he feels he cannot die, 
And knows himself no visi(m to himself. 
Nor the high God a vision, nor that One 
Who rose again : ye have seen what ye have seen.' 

"So spake the King: I knew not all he meant." 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 

King Arthur made new knights to fill the gap 
Left by the Holy Quest; and as he sat 
In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors 
Were softly sunder'd, and thro' these a youth, 
Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields 
Past, and the sunsliine came along with him. 

"Make me thy knight, because I know. Sir King, 
All that belongs to knighthood, and I love." 
Such -was his cry ; for having heard the King 
Had let proclaim a tournament — the prize 
A golden circlet and a knightly sword, 
Full fain had Pelleas for his lady won 
The golden circlet, for himself the sword: 
And there were those who knew him near the 

King, 
And promised for him : and Arthur made him 

knight. 

And this new knight, Sir Pelleas of the isles- 
But lately come to his inheritance, 



And lord of many a barren isle was he^ 
Riding at noon, a day or twain before. 
Across the forest call'd of Dean, to find 
Caerleon and the King, had felt the sun 
Beat like a strong knight on his helm, and reeled 
Almost to falling from his horse ; bnt saw 
Near him a mound of even-sloping side. 
Whereon a hundred stately beeches grew. 
And here and there great hollies under them , 
But for a mile all round was open space, 
And fern and heath : and slowly Pelleas drew 
To that dim day, then binding his good horse 
To a tree, cast himself down ; and as he lay 
At random looking over the brown earth 
Thro' that green-glooming twilight of the grove, 
It seem'd to Pelleas that the fern without 
Burnt as a living fire of emeralds, 
So that his eyes were dazzled looking at it. 
Then o'er it crost the dimness of a cloud 
Floating, and once the shadow of a bird 
Flying, and then a fawn ; and his eyes closed. 
And since he loved all maidens, but no maid 
In special, half-awake he whisper'd, "Where? 
Oh, where ? I love thee, tho' I know thee not. 
For fair thou art and pure as Guinevere, 
And I will make thee with my spear and sword 
As famous — O my Queen, my Guinevere, 
For I will be thine Arthur when we meet." 

Suddenly waken'd with a sound of talk 
And laughter at the limit of the wood. 
And glancing thro' the hoary boles, he saw. 
Strange as to some old prophet might have seem'cl 
A vision hovering on a sea of fire, 
Damsels in divers colors like the cloud 
Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them 
On horses, and the horses richly trapt 
Breast-high in that bright line of bracken stood: 
And all the damsels talk'd confusedly. 
And one was pointing this way, and one that, 
Because the way was lost. 

And Pelleas rose. 
And loosed his horse, and led him to the light. 
There she that seem'd the chief among them said, 
"In happy time behold onr pilot-star! 
Youth, we are damsels-errant, and we ride, 
Arm'd as ye see, to tilt against the knights 
There at Caerleon, bnt have lost our way: 
To right ? to left ? straight forward ? back again ? 
Which ? tell us quickly." 

And Pelleas gazing thought, 
"Is Gninevere herself so beautiful?" 
For large her violet eyes look'd, and her bloom 
A rosy dawn kindled in stainless heavens. 
And round her limbs, mature in womanhood; 
And slender was her hand and small her shape; 
And but for those large eyes, the haunts of scorn, 
She might have seem'd a toy to trifle with. 
And pass and care no more. But while he gazed 
The beauty of her flesh abash'd the boy. 
As tho' it were the beauty of her soul : 
For as the base man, judging of the good. 
Puts his own baseness in him by default 
Of will and nature, so did Pelleas lend 
All the young beauty of his own soul to hers, 
Believing her; and when she spake to him, 
Siammer'd, and could not make her a reply. 
For out of the waste islands had he come, 
Where saving his own sisters he had known 
Scarce any but the women of his islss. 
Rough wives, that laugh'd and screani'd against tbf 

gulls. 
Makers of nets, and living from the sea. 

Then with a slow smile turn'd the lady round 
And look'd upon her people ; and as when 



PELLEAS AND ETTAKRE. 



199 



A stone is flung into some sleeping tarn, 
The circle widens till it lip the niaige, 
Spread the slow smile thro' all her company. 
Three knights were therearaoug ; and they too 

smiled, 
Scorning him ; for the lady was Ettarre, 
And she was a great lady iu her laud. 

Again she said, "O wild and of the woods, 
Knowest thou not the fashion of onr speech? 
Or have the Heavens but given thee a fair face, 
Lacking a tongue?" 

"O damsel," answer'd he, 
"I woke from dreams; and coming out of gloom 
Was dazzled by the sudden light, and crave 
Pardon : but will ye to Caevleon ? I 
Go likewise: shall I lead you to the King?" 

" Lead then," she said ; and thro' the woods they 
went. 
ILnd while they rode, the meaning in his eyes. 
His tenderness of manner, and chaste awe. 
His broken utterances and bashfuluess. 
Were all a burthen to her, and in her heart 
She mutter'd, "I have lighted on a fool. 
Raw, yet so stale !" But since her mind was bent 
On hearing, after trumpet blown, her name 
And title, "Queen of Beauty," in the lists 
Cried— and beholding him so strong, she thought 
That peradventure he will tight for me. 
And win the circlet: therefore flatler'd him, 
Being so gracious, that he welluigh deem'd 
His wish by hers was echo'd ; and her knights 
And all her damsels too were gracious to him, 
For she was a great lady. 

And when they reach'd 
Caerleon, ere they past to lodging, she. 
Taking his hand, "O the strong hand," she said, 
"See! look at mine', but wilt thou tight for me. 
And win me this flne circlet, Pelleas, 
That I may love thee ?" 

Then his helpless heart 
Leapt, and he cried, " Ay ! wilt thou if I win ?" 
"Ay, that will L" she answer'd, and she laugh'd. 
And straitly nipt the hand, and flung it from her ; 
Then glanced askew at those three knights of hers. 
Till all her ladies laugh'd along with her. 

"O happy world," thought Pelleas, "all, meseems. 
Are happy ; I the happiest of them all." 
Nor slept that night for pleasure in his blood, 
And green wood-ways, and eyes among the leaves ; 
Then being on the nKn-row knighted, sware 
To love one only. And as he came away, 
The men who met him rounded on their heels 
And wonder'd after him, because his face 
Shone like the countenance of a priest of old 
Against the flame about a sacrifice 
Kindled by Are from heaven : so glad was he. 

Then Arthur made vast banquets, and strange 
knights 
From the four winds came in : and each one sat, 
Tho' served with choice from air, laud, stream, and 

sea. 
Oft in mid-banquet measuring with his eyes 
His neighbor's make and might: and Pelleas look'd 
Noble among the noble, for he dream'd 
His lady loved him, and he knew himself 
Loved of the King- and him his new-made knight 
Worshipt, whose lightest whisper moved him mure 
Than all the ranged reasons of the world. 

Then blush'd and brake the morning of the jousts, 
Aud this was call'd "The Touruameut of Youth:" 



For Arthur, loving his young knight, withheld 
His older aud his mightier from the lists, 
That Pelleas might obtain his lady's love, 
According to her promise, aud remain 
Lord of the tourney. Aud Arthur had the jousts 
Down in the flat field by the shore of Usk 
Holden : the gilded parapets were crown'd 
With faces, and the great tower fill'd with eyes 
Up to the summit, aud the trumpets blew. 
There all day long Sir Pelleas kept the tield 
With honor: so by that strong hand of his 
The sword and golden circlet were achieved. 

Then rang the shout his lady loved : the heat 
Of pride and glory fired her face ; her eye 
Sparkled ; she caught the circlet from his lance, 
And there before the people crown'd herself: 
So for the last time she was gracious to him. 

Then at Caerleon for a space— her look 
Bright for all others, cloudier on her knight— 
Linger'd Ettarre : and seeing Pelleas droop. 
Said Guinevere, " We marvel at thee much, 

damsel, wearing this uusunny face 

To him who won thee glory?" And she said, 
"Had ye not held your Lancelot in your bower. 
My Queen, he had not won." Whereat the Queen, 
As one whose foot is bitten by au ant. 
Glanced down upon her, turn'd aud went her way. 

But after, when her damsels and herself, 
And those three knights all set their faces home, 
Sir Pelleas follow'd. She that saw him cried, 
"Damsels— and yet I should be shamed to say it— 

1 cannot bide Sir Baby. Keep him back 
Among yourselves. Would rather that we had 
Some rough old knight who knew the worldly way. 
Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride 

And jest with : take him to you, keep him oflf. 

And pamper him with papmeat, if ye will. 

Old milky fables of the wolf and sheep, 

Such as the wholesome mothers tell their boys. 

Nay, should ye try him with a merry one 

To And his mettle, good : and if he fly us. 

Small matter 1 let him." This her damsels heard, 

And mindful of her small and cruel hand. 

They, closing round him thro' the journey home. 

Acted her best, and always from her side 

Restraiu'd him with all manner of device. 

So that he could not come to speak with her. 

And when she gain'd her castle, upsprang the bridge, 

Down rang the grate of iron thro' the groove, 

Aud he was left alone in open field. 

"These be the ways of ladies," Pelleas thought, 
"To those who love them, trials of our faith. 
Yea, let her prove me to the uttermost. 
For loyal to the uttermost am L" 
So made his moan ; and, darkness foiling, sought 
A priory uot far off", there lodged, but rose 
With morning every day, and, moist or dry, 
Full-arm'd upon his charger all day long 
Sat by the walls, aud uo oue opeu'd to him. 

And this persistence turn'd her scorn to wrath. 
Then calling her three knights, she charged them, 

" Out ! 
And drive him from the walls." And out they came. 
But Pelleas overthrew them as they dash'd 
Against him oue by one ; and these return'd. 
But still he kept his watch beneath the wall. 

Thereon her wrath became a hate ; and once, 
A week beyond, while walking on the walls 
With her three knights, she pointed downward, 

" Look, 
He haunts me— T cannot breathe— besieges me; 
Down ! strike him ! put my hate into your strokes. 



200 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



And drive him from my walls." And down they went, 
And Pelleas overthrew them one by one ; 
And from the tower above him cried Ettarre, 
"Bind him, and bring him iu." 

He heard her voice ; 
Then let the strong hand, which had overthrown 
Her minion-knights, by those he overthrew 
Be bouuden straight, and so they brought him in. 

Then when he came before Ettarre, the sight 
Of her rich beauty made him at one glance 
More bondsman in his heart than in his bonds. 
Yet with good cheer he spake, "Behold me, Lady, 
A prisoner, and the vassal of thy will ; 
And if thou keep me in thy donjon here, 
Content am I so that I see thy face 
But once a day : for I have sworn my vows. 
And thou hast given thy promise, and I know 
That all these pains are trials of my faith, 
And that thyself when thou hast seen me straiu'd 
And sifted to the utmost, wilt at length 
Yield me thy love and know me for thy knight." 

Then she began to rail so bitterly, 
With all her damsels, he was stricken mnte ; 
But when she mock'd his vows and the great King, 
Lighted on words: "For pity of thine own self. 
Peace, Lady, peace : is he not thine and mine ?" 

"Thou fool," she said, "I never heard his voice 
But long'd to break away. Unbind him now. 
And thrust him out of doors ; for save he be 
Fool to the midmost marrow of his bones, 
He will return no more." And those, her three, 
Laugh'd, and unbound, and thrust him from the 
gate. 

And after this, a week beyond, again 
She call'd them, saying, "There he watches yet. 
There like a dog before his master's door ! 
Kick'd, he returns: do ye not hate him, ye? 
Ye know yourselves : how can ye bide at peace. 
Affronted with his fulsome innocence? 
Are ye but creatures of the board and bed. 
No men to strike ? Fall on him all at once, 
And if ye slay him I reck not: if ye fail. 
Give ye the slave mine order to be bound. 
Bind him as heretofore, and bring him in : 
It may be ye shall slay him in his bonds." 

She spake; and at her will they couch'd their 
spears. 
Three against one : and Gawain passing by, 
Bound upon solitary adventure, saw 
Low down beneath the shadow of those towers 
A villainy, three to one : and thro' his heart 
The fire of honor and all noble deeds 
Flash'd, and he call'd, "I strike upon thy side — 
The caitiffs!" "Nay," said Pelleas, "but forbear; 
He needs no aid who doth his lady's will." 

So Gawain, looking at the villainy done, 
Forbore, but in his heat and eagerness 
Trembled and quiver'd, as the dog, withheld 
A moment from the vermin tliat he sees 
Before him, shivers, ere he springs and kills. 

And Pelleas overthrew them, one to three ; 
And they rose up, and bonud, and brought him in. 
Then first her anger, leaving Pelleas, burn'd 
Full on her knights in many an evil name 
3f craven, weakling, and thrice-beaten hound : 
"Yet, take him, ye that scarce are fit to touch. 
Far less to bind, your victor, and thrust him out, 
And let who will release him from his bonds, 
And if he comes again—" There she brake short ; 
And Pelleas auswer'd, "Lady, for indeed 



I loved you and I deem'd you beautiful, 
I cannot brook to see your beauty marr'd 
Thro' evil spite : and if ye love me not, 
I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn : 
I had liefer ye were worthy of my love, 
Thau to be loved again of you — farewell ; 
And tho' ye kill my hope, not yet my love, 
Vex not yourself: ye will not see me more." 

While thus he spake, she gazed upon the man 
Of princely bearing, tho' in bonds, and thought, 
"Why have I push'd him from me? this man loves, 
If love there be: yet him I loved not. Why? 
I deem'd him fool? yea, so? or that iu him 
A something — was it nobler than myself? — 
Seem'd my reproach ? He is not of my kind. 
He could not love me, did he know me well. 
Nay, let him go — and quickly." And her knights 
Laugh'd not, but thrust him boundeu out of door. 

Forth sprang Gawain, and loosed him from his 
bonds 
And flnng them o'er the walls ; and afterward. 
Shaking his hands, as from a lazar's rag, 
"Faith of my body," he said, "and art thou not^ 
Yea, thou art he, whom late our Arthur made 
Knight of his Table ; yea and he that won 
The circlet ? wherefore hast thou so defamed 
Thy brotherhf)od in me and all the rest, 
As let these caitift's on thee work their will ?" 

And Pelleas answer'd, "Oh, their wills are hers 
For whom I won the circlet ; and mine, hers. 
Thus to be bounden, so to see her face, 
Marr'd tho' it be with spite and mockery now. 
Other than when I found her in the woods; 
And tho' she hath me bounden but in spite. 
And all to flout me, when they bring me in, 
Let me be bounden, I shall see her face ; 
Else must I die thro' mine unhappiness." 

And Gawain answer'd kindly tho' in scorn, 
" Why, let my lady bind me if she will. 
And let my lady beat me if she will : 
But an she send her delegate to thrall 
These fighting hands of mine — Christ kill me then 
But I will slice him handless by the wrist. 
And let my lady sear the stump for him. 
Howl as he may. But hold me for your friend : 
Come, ye know nothing : here I pledge my troth. 
Yea, by the honor of the Table Round, 
I will be leal to thee and work thy work, 
And tame thy jailing princess to thine hand. 
Lend me thine horse and arms, and I will say 
That I have slain thee. She will let me in 
To hear the manner of thy fight and fall ; 
Then, when I come within her counsels, then 
From prime to vespers will I chant thy praise 
As prowest knight and truest lover, more 
Than any have snng thee living, till she long 
To have thee back in lusty life again. 
Not to be bound, save by white bonds and warm. 
Bearer than freedom. Wherefore now thy horse 
And armor : let me go : be comforted : 
Give me three days to melt her fancy, and hope 
The third night hence will bring thee news of gold.' 

Then Pelleas lent his horse and all his arms, 
Saving the goodly sword, his prize, and took 
Gawain's, and said, "Betray me not, but help — 
Art thou not he whom men call light-of-love ?" 

"Ay," said Gawain, "for women be so light." 
Then bounded forward to the castle walls, 
And raised a bugle hanging from his neck, 
And winded it, and that so musically 
That all the old echoes hidden in the wall 
Rang out like hollow woods at huutingtide. 



PELLEAS AND ETTARRE. 



201 



Fp ran a score of damsels to the tower ; 
"Avaiint," they cried, "our lady loves thee not." 
But Gavvnin lifting up his vizor said, 
" Gawain am I, Gawalu of Arthur's court, 
And I have slain this Pelleas whom ye hate : 
Behold his horse and armor. Open gales. 
And I will make you merry." 

And down they ran, 
Her damsels, crying to their lady, " Lo ! 
Pelleas is dead — he told us — he that hath 
His horse and armor: will ye let him in? 
He slew him ! Gawain, Gawaiu of the court, 
Sir Gawain — there he waits below the wall. 
Blowing his bugle as who should say him nay." 

And so, leave given, straight on thro' open door 
Rode Gawaiu, whom she greeted courteously. 
" Dead, is it so ?" she ask'd. "Ay, ay," said he, 
"And oft in dying cried upon your name." 
"Pity on him," she answer'd, "a good knight, 
But never let me bide one hour at peace." 
"Ay," thought Gawain, "and yon be fair enow: 
But I to your dead man have given my troth, 
That whom ye loathe, him will I make you love." 

So those three days, aimless about the land. 
Lost in a doubt, Pelleas wandering 
Waited, until the third night brought a moon 
With promise of large light on woods and ways. 

Hot was the night and silent ; but a sound 
Of Gawain ever coming, and this lay — 
Which Pelleas had heard sung before the Queen, 
And seen her sadden listening — vext his heart, 
And marr'd his rest — "A worm within the rose." 

"A rose, but one, none other rose had I, 
A rose, one rose, and this was wondrous fair. 
One rose, a rose that gladden'd earth and sky. 
One rose, my rose, that sweefen'd all mine air — 
I cared not for the thorns ; the thorns were there. 

"One rose, a rose to gather by and by. 
One rose, one rose, to gather and to wear, 
No rose but one — what other rose had I ? 
One rose, my rose ; a rose that will not die — 
He dies who loves it— if the worm be there." 

This tender rhyme, and evermore the doubt, 
" Why lingers Gawain with his golden news ?" 
So shook him that he could not rest, but rode 
Ere midnight to her walls, and bound his horse 
Hard by the gates. Wide open were the gates, 
And no watch kept ; and in thro' these he past. 
And heard but his own steps, and his own heart 
Beating, for nothing moved but his own self, 
And his own shadow. Then he crost the court. 
And spied not any light in hall or bower, 
But saw the postern portal also wide 
Yawning; and up a slope of garden, all 
Of roses white and red, and brambles mixt 
And overgrowing them, went on, and found. 
Here too, all hu^h'd below the mellow moon, 
Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave 
Came lightening downward, and so spilt itself 
Among the roses, and was lost again. 

Then was he ware of three pavilions rear'd 
Above the bushes, gilden-peakt : in one. 
Red after revel, dnnied her lurdane knights 
Slumbering, and their three squires across their feet: 
In one, their malice on the placid lip 
Proz'n by sweet sleep, four of her damsels lay: 
And in the third, the circlet of the jousts 
Bound on her brow, were Gawaiu and Ettarre. 

Back, as a hand that pushes thro' the leaf 



To tind a nest and feels a snake, he drew : 
Back, as a coward slinks from what he fears 
To cope with, or a traitor proven, or hound 
Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame 
Creep with his shadow thru' the court again, 
Fingering at his sword-handle until he stood 
There on the castle-bridge once moi-e, and thought, 
"I will go back, and slay them where they lie." 

And so went back, and seeing them yet in sleep 
Said, "Ye, that so dishallow the holy sleep, 
Ytuir sleep is death," and drew the sword, and 

thought, 
"What! slay a sleeping knight? the King hath 

bound 
And sworn me to this brotherhood ;" again, 
"Alas that ever a knight slionld be so false I" 
Then turn'd, and so return'd, and groaning laid 
The naked sword athwart their naked throats, 
There left it, and them sleeping ; and she lay. 
The circlet of the tourney round her brows. 
And the sword of the tourney across her throat. 

And forth he past, and mounting on his horse 
Stared at her towers that, larger than themselves 
In their own darkness, throng'd into the moon. 
Then crush'd the saddle with his thighs, and cleuch'd 
His hands, and maddeu'd with himself and moan'd : 

" Would they have risen against me in their blood 
At the last day? I might have answer'd them 
Even before high God. O towers so strong. 
Huge, solid, would that even while I gaze 
The crack of earthquake shivering to your base 
Split you, and Hell burst up your harlot roofs 
Bellowing, and charr'd yon thro' and thro' within. 
Black as the harlot's heart— hollow as a skull ! 
Let the tierce east scream thro' your eyelet-holes. 
And whirl the dust of harlots round and nmnd 
In dung and nettles! hiss, snake— I saw him there- 
Let the fox bark, let the wolf yell. Who yells 
Here in the still sweet summer night, but I — 
I, the poor Pelleas whom she call'd her fool? 
Pool, beast — he, she, or I ? myself most fool ; 
Beast too, as lacking human wit— disgraced, 
Dishonor'd all for trial of true love- 
Love ?— we be all alike : only the King 
Hath made us fools and liars. O noble vows ! 

great and sane and simple race of brutes 
That own no lust because they have no law I 
For why should I have loved her to my shame ? 

1 loathe her, as I loved her to my shame. 
I never loved her, I but lusted for her— 
Away—" 

He dash'd the rowel into his horse. 
And bounded forth and vanish'd thro' the night. 

Then she, that felt the cold tonch on her throat, 
Awaking knew the sword, and turn'd herself 
To Gawain: "Liar, for thou hast not slain 
This Pelleas ! here he stood, and might have slain 
Me and thyself." And he that tells the tale 
Says that her ever-veering fancy tuvn'd 
To Pelleas, as the one true knight on earth, 
And only lover; and thro' her love her life 
Wasted and pined, desiring him in vain. 

But he by wild and way, for half the night. 
And over hard and soft, striking the sod 
From out the soft, the spark from oft' the hard. 
Rode till the star above the wakening sun. 
Beside that tower where Percivale was cowl'd, 
Glanced from the rosy forehead of the dawn. 
For so the words were flash'd into his heart 
He knew not whence or wherefore : " O sweet star, 
Pvire on the virgin forehead of the dawn !" 
And there he would have wept, but felt his eyes 



202 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



Harder and drier thau a f.Hiiitain l)ed 

In summer: thither came the village girls 

And linger'd talking, and they come no more 

Till the sweet heavens have fill'd it from the heights 

Again with living waters In the change 

Of seasons: hard his eyes; harder his heart 

Seem'd ; but so weary were his limbs, that he, 

Gasping, "Of Arthur's hall am I, but here. 

Here let me rest and die," cast himself dow n, 

And gulf'd his griefs iu inmost sleep ; so lay, 

Till shaken by a dream, that Gawaiii tired 

The hall of Merlin, and the morning star 

Keel'd iu the smoke, brake into flame, and fell. 

He woke, and being ware of some one nigh, 
Sent hands up<m him, as to tear him, crying, 
"False! I held thee as pure as Guinevere." 

But Percivale stood near him and replied, 
"Am 1 but false as Guinevere is pure? 
Or art thou mazed with dreams? or being one 
Of our free-spoken Table hast not heard 
Thai Lancelot "—there he check'd himself and paused. 

Then fared it with Sir Pelleas as with one 
Wlio gets a wound in battle, and the sword 
That made it plunges thro' the wound again, 
And pricks it deeper; and he shrank and wail'd, 
•' Is the Queen false ?" and Percivale was mute. 
" Have any of our Round Table held their vows ?" 
And Percivale made answer not a word. 
"Is the King true?" "The King!" said Percivale. 
"Why then let men couple at once with wolves. 
What! art thou mad?" 

But Pelleas, leaping up. 
Ran thro' the doors and vaulted on his horse 
And fled: small pity up(m his horse had he, 
Or on himself, or any, and when he met 
A cripple, one that held a hand for alms — 
Hunch'd as he was, and like an old dwarf-elm 
That turns its back on the salt blast, the boy 
Paused not, but overrode him, shouting, "False, 
And false with Gawain !" and so left him bruised 
And batter'd, and fled on, and hill and wood 
Went ever streaming by him till the gloom. 
That follows on the turning of the world, 
Darken'd the common path: he twitch'd the reins. 
And made his beast, that better knew it, swerve 
Now oflf it and now on ; but when he saw 
High up in heaven the hall that Merlin built. 
Blackening against the dead-green stripes of even, 
" Black nest of rats," he groau'd, "ye build too high." 

Not long thereafter from the city gates 
Issued Sir Lancelot riding airily, 
Warm with a gracious parting from the Queen, 
Peace at his heart, and gazing at a star 
And marvelling what it was: on whom the boy, 
Across the silent seeded meadow-grass 
Borne, clash'd: and Lancelot, saying, "What name 

hast thou 
That ridest here so blindly and so hard?" 
"I have no name," he shouted, "a scourge am I, 
To lash the treasons of the Table Round." 
"Yea, but thy name?" "I have many names," he 

cried : 
" I am wrath and shame and hate and evil fame, 
And like a poisonous wind I pass to blast 
And blaze the crime of Lancelot and the Queen." 
"First over me," said Lancelot, "shalt thou pass." 
"Fight therefore," yell'd the other, and either knight 
Drew back a space, and when they closed, at once 
The weary steed of Pelleas floundering flung 
His rider, who call'd out from the dark field, 
"Thou art false as Hell: slay me: I have no sword." 
Then Lancelot, "Yea, between thy lips — and sharp; 
But here will I disedge it by thy death." 



"Slay then," he shriek"d, "my will is to be slain." 
And Lancelot, with his heel upon the fall'n, 
Rolling his eyes, a moment stood, then spake: 
"Rise, weakling; I am Lancelot; say thy say." 

And Lancelot slowly rode his warhorse back 
To Camelot, and Sir Pelleas iu brief while 
Caught his unbroken limbs from the dark field, 
And follovv'd to the city. It chanced that both 
Brake into hall together, worn and pale. 
There with her knights and dames was Guinevere. 
Full wonderingly she gazed on Lancelot 
So soon return'd, and then on Pelleas, him 
Who had not greeted her, but cast himself 
Down on a bench, hard - breathing. "Have ye 

fought ?" 
She ask'd of Lancelot. "Ay, my Queen," he said. 
"And thou hast overthrown him?" "Ay, my Queen." 
Then she, turning to Pelleas, "O young knight, 
Hath the great heart of knighthood in thee fail'd 
So far thou canst not bide, unfrowardly, 
A fall from him ?" Then, for he answer'd not, 
"Or hast thou other griefs? If I, the Queen, 
May help them, loose thy tongue, and let me know." 
But Pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce 
She quail'd ; and he, hissing, " I have no sword," 
Sprang from the door into the dark. The Queen 
Look'd hard upon her lover, he on her; 
And each foresaw the dolorous day to be : 
And all talk died, as in a grove all song 
Beneath the shadow of some bird of prey; 
Then a long silence came upon the hall, 
And Modred thought, "The time is hard at hand" 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



=^;r-. .&'*---.^— " 



4^ 




" Danced like a withur'd leaf before the hall." 

Dagonkt, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood 
Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round, 
At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods, 
Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall. 
And toward him from the hall, with harp iu band, 
And from the ciown thereof a carcanet 
Of ruby swaying to and fro, the prize 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



203 



Of Tristram in the jousts of yesterday, 

Came Tristram, sayiug, " Why skip ye so, Sir Fool ?'' 

For Arthur and Sir Lancelot riding once 
Far down beneath a winding wall of rock 
Heard a child wail. A stnmp of oak half-dead, 
From roots like some black coil of carven snakes, 
Clutch'd at the crag, and started thro' mid-air 
Bearing an eagle's nest: and thro' the tree 
Riish'd ever a rainy wind, and thro' the wind 
Pierced ever a child's cry: and crag and tree 
Scaling, Sir Lancelot from the perilous nest. 
This ruby necklace thrice aronnd her neck, 
And all unscarr'd from beak or talon, brought 
A maiden babe ; which Arthur pitying took. 
Then gave it to his Queen to rear : the Queen 
But coldly acquiescing, in her white arms 
Received, and after loved it tenderly. 
And named it Nestling ; so forgot herself 
A moment, and her cares ; till that young life 
Being smitten in mid-heaven with mortal cold 
Past from her ; and in time the carcanet 
Vext her with plaintive memories of the child: 
So she, delivering it to Arthur, said, 
" Take thou the jewels of this dead innocence. 
And make them, au thou wilt, a touruey-prize." 

To whom the King, "Peace to thine eagle-borne 
Dead nestling, and this honor after death, 
Following thy will ! but, O my Queen, I muse 
Why ye not wear on arm, or neck, or zone 
Those diamonds that I rescued from the tarn, 
Aud Lancelot won, methought, for thee to wear." 

"Would rather you had let them foil," she cried, 
"Plunge and be lost— ill-fated as they were, 
A bitterness to me ! — ye look amazed. 
Not knowing they were lost as soon as given — 
Slid from my hands, when I was leaning out 
Above the river — that unhappy child 
Past in her barge : but rosier luck will go 
With these rich jewels, seeing that they came 
Not from the skeleton of a brother-slayer. 
But the sweet body of a maiden babe. 
Perchance— who knows?— the purest of thy knights 
May win them for the purest of my maids." 

She ended, and the cry of a great joust 
With trumpet-blowings ran on all the ways 
From Camelot in among the faded fields 
To furthest towers ; aud everywhere the knights 
Arm'd for a day of glory before the King. 

But on the hither side of that loud mcnn 
luto the hall stagger'd, his visage ribb'd 
From ear to ear with dogwhip-weals, his nose 
Bridge-broken, one eye out, and one hand off, 
And one with shatter'd fingers dangling lame, 
A churl, to whom indignantly the King, 

"My churl, for whom Christ died, what evil beast 
Hath drawn his claws athwart thy face » or fiend ? 
Man was it who marr'd heaven's image in thee thus?" 

Then, sputtering thro' the hedge of spliuter'd teeth, 
Yet strangers to the tongue, and with blunt stump 
Pitch-blackeu'd sawing the air, said the maim'd churl, 

"He took them aud he drave them to his tower — 
Some hold he was a table-knight of thine— 
A hundred goodly ones— the Red Knight, he- 
Lord, I was tending swine, and the Red Knight 
Brake in upon me aud drave them to his tower; 
And when I call'd upon thy name as one 
That doest right by gentle and by churl, 
Maim'd me aud maul'd, and would outright have 

slain. 
Save that he sware me to a message, saying, 



'Tell thou the King and all his liars, that I 

Have founded my Round Table in the North, 

And whatsoever his own knights have sworn 

My knights have sworn the counter to it— and say 

My tower is full of harlots, like his court, 

But mine are worthier, seeing they profess 

To be none other than themselves — aud say 

My knights are all adulterers like his own. 

But mine are truer, seeing they profess 

To be none other ; and say his hour is come, 

Tlie heathen are up(ni him, his hnig lauc« 

Broken, aud his Excalibur a straw.'" 

Then Arthur turn'd to Kay, the seneschal, 
"Take thou my churl, and tend him curiouisly 
Like a king's lieir, till all his hurts be whole. 
The heathen— but that ever-climbing wave, 
Hurl'd back again so often in empty foam. 
Hath lain for years at rest— and renegades. 
Thieves, bandits, leavings of confusion, whom 
The wholesome realm is purged of otherwhere. 
Friends, thro' your manhood and yeur fealty— uow 
Make their last head like Satan in the North. 
My younger knights, new-made, in whom your flower 
Waits to be solid fruit of golden deeds. 
Move with me toward their quelling, which achieved. 
The loneliest ways are safe from shore to shore. 
But thou. Sir Lancelot, sitting in my place 
Enchair'd to-morrow, arbitrate the field ; 
For wherefore shouldst thou care to mingle with it. 
Only to yield my Queen her own again ? 
Speak, Lancelot, thou art silent : is it well ?" 

Thereto Sir Lancelot answer'd, "It is well: 
Yet better if the King abide, and leave 
The leading of his younger knights to me. 
Else, for the Kiug has will'd it, it is well."' 

Then Arthur rose and Lancelot follow'd him, 
And while they stood without the doors, the King 
Turn'd to him saying, "Is It then so well? 
Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he 
Of whom was written, 'A sound is in his ears?' 
The foot that loiters, bidden go — the glance 
That only seems half-loyal to command— 
A manner somewhat fiill'u from reverence — 
Or have I dream'd the bearing of our knights 
Tells of a manhood ever less and lower ? 
Or whence the fear lest this my realm, uprear'd, 
By noble deeds at one with noble vows. 
From flat confusion and brute violences, 
Reel back into the beast, and be no more ?" 

He spoke, and taking all his younger knights, 
Down the slope city rode, aud sharply turn'd 
North by the gate. In her high bower the Queen, 
Working a tapestry, lifted up her head, 
Watch'd her lord pass, and knew not that she sigli'd. 
Then ran across her memory the strange rhyme 
Of bygone Merlin, "Where is he who knows? 
From the great deep to the great deep he goes." 

But when the morning of a tournament, 
By these in earnest those in mockery call'd 
The Tournament of the Dead Innocence, 
Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot, 
Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey, 
The words of Arthur flying shriek'd, arose. 
And down a streetway hung with folds of pure 
White samite, aud by fountains running wine. 
Where children sat in white with cups of gold. 
Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps 
Ascending, flll'd his double-dragon'd chair. 

He glanced and saw the stately galleries. 
Dame, damsel, each thro' worship of their Queea 
White-robed in honor of the stainless child, 
And some with scatter'd jewels, like a bank 



204 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



Of niaideu snow iniui;led with sparks of fire, 
lie look'd but ouce, aud veil'd his eyes agaiu. 

The snddeu trumpet sounded as In a dream 
To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll 
Of Autumn thuuder, and the jousts began : 
And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf 
And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume, 
■\Veut down it. Sighing weariedly, as one 
Who sits aud gazes on a faded fire. 
When all the goodlier guests are past away. 
Sat their great umpire, looking o'er the lists. 
He saw the laws that ruled the tournament 
Broken, but spake not ; ouce, a knight cast down 
Before his throue of arbitration cursed 
The dead babe and the follies of the Kiug ; 
And once the laces of a helmet crack'd, 
Aud show'd him, like a vermin in its hole, 
Modred, a nanow face : anon he heard 
The voice that billow'd round the barriers roar 
An ocean-sonnding welcome to one kuight, 
But newly euter'd, taller than the rest. 
And armor'd all in forest gveen, whereon 
There tript a hundred tiny silver deer. 
And wearing but a holly spray for crest. 
With ever-scattering berries, and on shield 
A spear, a harp, a bugle— Tristram— late 
From overseas in Brittany returu'd. 
And marriage with a princess of that realm, 
Isolt the wiiite— Sir Tristram of the Woods— 
Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain 
His own against him, and now yearu'd to shake 
The burthen off his heart in one full shock 
With Tristram ev'n to death : his strong hands gript 
And dinted the gilt dragons right and left. 
Until he groau'd for wrath— so many of those, 
That ware their ladies" colors on the casque. 
Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds, 
And there with gibes aud flickering mockeries 
Stood, while he mntter'd, "Craven crests ! O shame ! 
What faith have these in whom they sware to love ? 
The glory of our Round Table is no more." 

So Tristram won, aud Lancelot gave, the gems, 
Not speaking other word than "Hast thou won? 
Art thou the purest, brother? See, the hand 
Wherewith thou takest this, is red !" to whom 
Tristram, half plagued by Lancelot's languorous 

mood. 
Made answer, "Ay, but wherefore toss me this 
Like a dry bone cast to some hungry hound? 
Let be thy fair Queen's fantasy. Strength of heart 
And might of limb, but mainly use and skill, 
Are winners in this pastime of our Kiug. 
My hand — belike the lance hath dript upon it — 
No blood of miue, I trow ; but, O chief kuight. 
Right arm of Arthur in the battlefield, 
Great brother, thou nor I have made the world ; 
Be happy in thy fair Queen as I in miue." 

And Tristram round the gallery made his horse 
Caracole ; then bow'd his homage, bluntly saying, 
"Fair damsels, each to him who worships each 
Sole Queen of Beauty and of love, behold 
This day my Queen of Beauty is not here." 
Aud most of these were mute, some anger'd, one 
Murmuring, "All courtesy is dead," and one, 
"The glory of our Round Table is no more." 

Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle 
clung, 
And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day 
Went glooming down in wet and weariness: 
But under her black brows a swarthy one 
Laugh'd shrilly, crying, "Praise the patient saints. 
Our one white day of Innocence hath past, 
Tho' somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it. 
The snowdrop only, flowering thro' the year, 



Would make the world as blank as Winter-tide. 
Come — let us gladden their sad eyes, our Queen's 
And Lancelot's, at this night's solemnity 
With all the kindlier colors of the field." 

So dame and damsel glitter'd at the feast 
Variously gay: for he that tells the tale 
Likeu'd them, saying, as when an hour of cold 
Falls on the mountain in midsummer snows, 
Aud all the purple slopes of mountain flowers 
Pass under white, till the warm hour returus 
With veer of wind, and all are flowers agaiu ; 
So dame and damsel cast the simple white, 
And glowing in all colors, the live grass, 
Rose-campiou, blue-bell, kingcup, poppy, glauced 
About the revels, and with mirth so loud 
Beyond all use, that, half-amazed, the Queen, 
And wroth at Tristram and the lawless jousts. 
Brake up their sj)orts, then slowly to her bower 
Parted, and in her bosom pain was lord. 

And little Dagonet on the morrow morn, 
High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide, 
Danced like a wither'd leaf before the hall. 
Then Tristram saying, "Why skip ye so. Sir Fool 5* 
Wlieel'd round on either heel, Dagonet replied, 
"Belike for lack of wiser company; 
Or beiug fool, and seeing too much wit 
Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip 
To know myself the wisest knight of all." 
"-^y, fool," said Tristram, "but 'tis eating dry 
To dance without a catch, a roundelay 
To dance to." Then he twangled on his harp, 
And while he twangled little Dagonet stood, 
Quiet as any water-sodden log 
Stay'd iu the wandering warble of a brook ; 
But when the twaugling ended, skipt again ; 
Aud being ask'd, "Why skipt ye not. Sir Fool?" 
Made answer, "I had liefer twenty years 
Skip to the broken music of my brains 
Than any broken music thou canst make." 
Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come, 
"Good now, what music have I broken, fool?" 
And little Dagonet, skipping, "Arthur, the King's; 
For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt, 
Thou makest broken music with thy bride. 
Her daintier namesake down in Brittany — 
And so thou breakest Arthur's music too." 
"Save for that broken music in thy brains, 
Sir Fool," said Tristram, "I would break thy head. 
Fool, I came late, the heathen wars were o'er. 
The life had flown, we sware but by the shell— 
I am but a fool to reason with a fool — 
Come, thou art crabb'd and sour ; but lean me down, 
Sir Dagonet, one of thy long asses' ears, 
Aud hearken if my music be not true. 

" ' Free love— free field — we love but while we may : 
The woods are hush'd, their music is no more : 
The leaf is dead, the yearning past away: 
New leaf, new life — the days of frost are o'er: 
New life, new love, to suit the newer day: 
New loves are sweet as those that went before : 
Free love — free field — we love but while we may.' 

"Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune, 
Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods, 
And heard it ring as true as tested gold." 

But Dagonet, with one foot poised in his hand, 
" Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday 
Made to run wine ? — but this had run itself 
All out like a long life to a sour end — 
And them that round it sat with golden cups 
To hand the wine to whosoever came — 
The twelve small damosels white as Innocence, 
In honor of poor Innocence the babe. 
Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



203 







Cut DaRonet, with oue foot poised in his himJ." 



Lent to the King, and Innocence the King 
Gave for a prize — and one of those white slips 
Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, 
'Drink, drink, Sir Fool,' and thereupon I drank. 
Spat — pish — the cup was gold, the draught was mud." 

And Tristram, " Was it muddier than thy gibes ? 
Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee ? — 
Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool — 
'Fear God: honor the King— his oue true knight- 
Sole follower of the vows' — for here be they 
Who knew thee swine enow before I came. 
Smuttier than blasted grain : but when the King 
Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up 
It frighted all free fool from out thy heart ; 
Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine, 
A naked aught — yet swine I hold thee still. 
For I have flung thee pearls and tiud thee swine." 

And little Dagonet mincing with his feet, 
" Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck 
In lieu of heis, I'll hold thou hast some touch 
Of music, since I care not for thy pearls. 
Swine ? I have wallow'd, 1 have wash'd — the world 
Is flesh and shadow — I have had my day. 
The dirty nurse. Experience, in her kind 
Hath foul'd me — an I wallow'd, then I wash'd — 
I have had my day and my philosophies — 
And thank the Lord I am King Arthur's fool. 
Swine, say ye ? swine, goats, asses, rams, and geese 
Troop'd round a Paynim harper once, who thrumm'd 
On such a wire as musically as thou 
Some such tiue song — but never a king's fool." 

And Tristram, "Then were swine, goats, asses, 
geese, 
The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard 
Had such a mastery of his mystery 
That he could harp his wife up out of hell." 

Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot, 



"And whither harp'st thou thine? down! and thy- 
self 
Down ! and two more: a helpful harper thou. 
That liarpest downward ! Dost thou know the star 
We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?" 

And Tristram, "Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King 
Was victor welluigh day by day, the knights, 
Gloiying in each new glory, set his name 
High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven." 

And Dagonet answer'd, "Ay, and when the land 
Was freed, and the Queen false, ye set yourself 
To babble about him, all to show your wit — 
And whether he were King by courtesy. 
Or King by right — and so went harping down 
The black king's highway, got so far, and grew 
So witty that ye play'd at ducks and drakes 
With Arthur's vows on the great lake of fire. 
Tuwhoo 1 do you see it ? do you see the star ?" 

"Nay, fool," said Tristram, "not in open day." 
And Dagonet, "Nay, nor will: I see it and hear. 
It makes a silent music up in heaven. 
And I, and Arthur and the angels hear, 
And then we skip." " Lo, fool," he said, "ye talk 
Fool's treason : is the King thy brother fool ?" 
Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrill'd, 
"Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools ! 
Conceits himself as God that he can make 
Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk 
From burning spurge, honey from hornet-combs. 
And men from beasts — Long live the king of fools 1"*" 

And down the city Dagonet danced away; 
But thro' the slowly-mellowing avenues 
And solitary passes of the wood 
Rode Tristram toward Lyonnesse and the west. 
Before him fled the face of Queen Isolt 
With ruby-circled neck, but evermore 
Past, as a rustle or twitter iu the wood 



206 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



Made dull his inner, keen his outer eye 

For all that walk'd, or crept, or perch'd, or flew. 

Anou the face, as, when a gust hath blown, 

lTuriifl[iing waters re-collect the shape 

Of one that in them sees himself, veturu'd ; 

Bnt at the slot or fewmets of a deer. 

Or ev'u a fall'n feather, vauish'd again. 

So on for all that day from lawn to lawn 
Thro' many a league-long bower he rode. At length 
A lodge of intertwisted beechen-boiighs 
Fiirze-cramm'd, and bracken-rooft, the which himself 
Built for a summer day with Queen Isolt 
Against a shower, dark in the golden grove 
Appearing, sent his fancy back to where 
Slie lived a moon in that low lodge with him : 
Till Mark her lord had past, the Cornish king. 
With six or seven, when Tristram was away. 
And snatch'd her theuce ; yet dreading worse than 

shame 
Her warrior Tristram, spake not any word, 
But. bode his hour, devising wretchedness. 

Aud now that desert lodge to Tristram lookt 
So sweet, that halting, in he past, and sank 
Down on a drift of foliage random-blown ; 
But could not rest for musing how to smoothe 
And sleek his marriage over to the Queen. 
Perchance in lone Tintagil far from all 
The tonguesters of the court she had uot heard. 
But then what folly had sent him overseas 
After she left him lonely here? a name? 
Was it the name of one in Brittany, 
Isolt, the daughter of the King? "Isolt 
Of the white hands" they call'd her: the sweet name 
Allured him tirst, and then the maid herself. 
Who served him well with those white hands of hers. 
And loved him well, until himself had thought 
He loved her also, wedded easily. 
But left her all as easily, and retnrn'd. 
The black-blue Irish hair and Irish eyes 
Had drawn him home— what marvel ? then he laid 
His brows upon the drifted leaf and dream'd. 

He seem'd to pace the strand of Brittany 
Between Isolt of Britain and his bride. 
And show'd them both the ruby chain, and both 
Began to struggle for it, till his Queen 
Graspt it so hard, that all her hand was red. 
Then cried the Breton, " Look, her hand is red ! 
These be no rubies, this is frozen blood. 
And melts within her hand — her hand is hot 
With ill desires, but this I gave thee, look, 
Is all as cool and white as any tlower." 
Follow'd a rush of eagle's wings, and then 
A wliimpering of the spirit of the child. 
Because the twain had spoilt her carcanet. 

He dream'd; but Arthur with a hundred spears 
Eode far, till o'er the illimitable reed. 
And many a glancing plash aud sallowy isle. 
The wide-wing'd sunset of the misty marsh 
Glared on a huge machicolated tower 
That stood with open doors, whereout was roll'd 
A roar of riot, as from men secure 
Amid their marshes, ruffians at their ease 
Among their harlot-brides, an evil song. 
" Lo there," said one of Arthur's youth, for there. 
High on a grim dead tree before the tower, 
A goodly brother of the Table Round 
swung by the neck: and on the boughs a shield 
Showing a shower of blood in a tield uoir. 
And therebeside a horn, inflamed the knights 
At that dishonor done the gilded spur, 
Till each would clash the shield, and blow the horn. 
But Arthur waved them back. AUnie he rode. 
Then at the dry harsh roar of the great horn, 
T'hat sent the face of all the marsh aloft, 



An ever upward-rushing storm and cloud 

Of shriek aud plume, the Red Knight heard, aud all, 

Even lo tipmost lance and topmost helm. 

In blood-red armor sallying, howl'd to the King, 

"The teeth of hell flay bare and gnash thee flat !— 
Lo ! art thou uot that eunuch-hearted King 
Who fain had dipt free manhood from the world — 
The woman-worshiper? Yea, God's curse, and 11 
Slain was the brother of my paramour 
By a knight of thine, and I that heard her whine 
Aud snivel, being eunuch-hearted too, 
Sware by the scorpion-worm that twists in hell. 
And stings itself to everlasting death. 
To hang whatever knight of thine I fought 
Aud tumbled. Art thou Kiug ?— Look to thy life !" 

He ended : Arthur knew the voice ; the fiice 
Wellnigh was helmet-hidden, and the name 
Went wandering somewhere darkling in his miud. 
And Arthur deign'd not nse of word or sword. 
But let the drunkard, as he stretch'd from horse 
To strike him, overbalancing his bulk, 
Down from the causeway heavily to the swamp 
Fall, as the crest of some slow-arching wave. 
Heard in dead night along that table-shore, 
Drops flat, and after the great waters break 
Whitening for half a league, and thin themselves, 
Far over sands marbled with moon aud cloud. 
From less aud less to nothing ; thus he fell 
Head -heavy; then the knights, who watch'd him, 

roar'd 
And shouted and leapt down upon the fall'n ; 
There trampled out his face from being known. 
And sank his head in mire, aud slimed themselves: 
Nor heard the Kiug for their own cries, but sprang 
Thro' open doors, and swording right and left 
Meu, women, on their sodden faces, hurl'd 
The tables over aud the wines, aud slew 
Till all the rafters rang with woman-yells, 
And all the pavement stream'd with massacre: 
Then, yell with yell echoing, they tired the tower. 
Which half that autumn night, like the live North, 
Red-pulsing up thro' Alioth and Alcor, 
Made all above it, and a hundred meres 
About it, as the water Moab saw 
Come round by the East, and out beyond thera 

ttush'd 
The long low dune, aud lazy-plunging sea. 

So all the ways were safe from shore to shore, j 
Bnt iu the heart of Arthur pain was lord. 

Then, out of Tristram waking, the red dream 
Fled with a shout, aud that low lodge retnrn'd, 
Mid-f(u-est, and the wind among the boughs. 
He whistled his good warhorse left to graze 
Among the finest greens, vaulted upon him, 
And rode beneaih an ever-showering leaf. 
Till one lone woman, weeping near a cross, 
Stay'd him. "Why weep ye?" "Lord," she said, 

"my man 
Hath left me or is dead ;" whereon he thought— 
" What, if she hate me now ? I would not this. 
What, if she love me still ? I would not that. 
I know not what I would" — but said to her, 
"Yet weep not thou, lest, if thy mate return. 
He tind thy favor changed and love thee uot" — 
Then pressing day by day thro' Lyonnesse 
Last in a rocky hollow, belling, heard 
The hounds of Mark, and felt the goodly hounds 
Yelp at his heart, but turning, past and gain'd 
Tintagil, half in sea, and high on laud, 
A crown of towers. 

Down in a casement sat, 
A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair 
Aud glossy-lhrouted grace, Isolt the Queeu. 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



207 



Aud when she heard the feet ol' Tristram grind 
The spiring stoue that scaled about her tower, 
Flush'd, started, met him at the doors, and there 
Belted his body with her white embrace, 
Crying aloud, " Not Mark — not Marlj, my soul ! 
The footstep ttutter'd me at lirst : not he : 
Catlike thro' his own castle steals my Mark, 
But warrior-wise thou stridest thro" his hails 
Who hates thee, as I him— ^v'n to the death. 
My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark 
Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh." 
To whom Sir Tristram smiling, "I am here. 
Let be tliy Mark, seeing he is not thine." 

And drawing somewhat backward, she replied, 
"Can he be wrong'd who is not ev'n his own, 
But save for dread of ihee had beaten me, 
Scratch'd, bitten, blinded, raarr'd me somehow — 

Murk? 
What rights are his that dare not strike for them ? 
Not lift a hand— not, tho' he fonnd me thus 1 
But hearken ! have ye met him ? hence he went 
To-day for three days' hunting — as he said — 
And so returns belike within an hour. 
Mark's way, my soul I— but eat not thou with Mark, 
Because he hates thee even more than fears ; 
Nor drink: and when thou passest any wood 
Close vizor, lest an arrow from the bush 
Should leave me all alone with Mark aud hell. 
My God, the measure of my hate for Mark 
Is as the measure of my love for thee." 

So, pluck'd one way by hate and one by love, 
Draiu'd of her force, again she sat, and spake 
To Tristram, as he knelt before her, saying, 
"O hunter, and O blower of the horn, 
Harper, and thou hast been a rover too, 
For, ere I mated with my shambling king, 
Ye twa'in had fallen out about the bride 
Of one — his name is out of me — the prize. 
If prize she were — (what marvel— she could see) — 
Thine, friend ; and ever since my craven seeks 
To wreck thee villainously: but, O Sir Knight, 
What dume or damsel have ye kueel'd to last ?" 

And Tristram, " Last to my Qneen Pararaouut, 
Here now to my Queen Paramount of love 
Aud loveliness — ay, lovelier than when first 
Her light feet fell on our rough Lyounesse, 
Sailing from Ireland." 

Softly langh'd Isolt; 
" Platter me not, for hath not our great Queen 
My dole of beauty trebled f" and he said, 
"Her beauty is her beauty, and thine thine, 
And thine is more to me— soft, gracious, kind — 
Save when thy Mark is kindled on thy lips 
Most gracious ; but she, haughty, ev'n to him, 
Lancelot; for I have seen him wan enow 
To make one doubt if ever the great Queen 
Have yielded him her love." 

To whom Isolt, 
"Ah, then, false hunter and false harper, thou 
Who breakest thro' the scruple of my bond. 
Calling me thy white hind, and saying to me 
That Guinevere had sinu'd against the highest, 
And I— misyoked with such a want of man- 
That I could hardly sin against the lowest." 

He answer'd, "O my soul, be comforted 1 
If this be sweet, to sin in leading-strings. 
If here be comfort, and if ours be sin, 
Crown'd warrant had we for the crowning sin 
That made us happy: but how ye greet me— fear 
And fault and doubt— no word of that fond tale— 
Thy deep heart-yearnings, thy sweet memories 
Of Tristram iu that year he was away." 
14 



And, saddening on the sudden, spake Isolt, 
"I had forgotten all in my strong joy 
To see thee— yearnings ? — ay ! for, hour by hour, 
Here iu the never-ended afternoon, 
O sweeter than all memories of thee. 
Deeper than any yearnings after thee 
Seem'd those far-rolling, westward-smiling seas, 
Watch'd from this tower. Isolt of Britain dash'd 
Before Isolt of Brittany on the straijd, 
Would that have chill'd her bride-kiss? Wedded 

her? 
Fought iu her father's battles? wounded there? 
The King was all fulfiird with gratefulness. 
And she, my namesake of the hands, that heal'd 
Thy hurt and heart with unguent and caress — 
Well — can I wish her any huger wrong 
Than having known thee ? Her too hast thou left 
To pine and waste in those sweet memories. 
Oh, were I not my Mark's, by whom all men 
Are noble, I should hate thee more than love." 

And Tristram, fondling her light hands, replied, 
"Grace, Queen, for being loved: she loved me well. 
Bid I love her? the name at least I loved. 
Isolt ?— I fought his battles for Isolt ! 
The night was dark ; the true star set. Isolt ! 
The name was ruler of the dark— Isolt? 
Care not for her I patient, and prayerful, meek, 
Pale-blooded, she will yield herself to God." 

And Isolt answer'd, "Yea, and why not I? 
Mine is the larger need, who am not meek, 
Pale-blooded, prayerful. Let me tell thee now. 
Here one black, mute midsummer night I sat, 
Lonely, but musing on thee, wondering where. 
Murmuring a light song I had heard thee sing, 
Aud once or twice I sjjake thy name aloud. 
Then flash'd a levin-brand ; and near me stood. 
In fuming sulphur blue and green, a fleud — 
Mark's way to steal behind one in the dark — 
For there was Mark: 'He has wedded her,' he said, 
Not said, but hiss'd it: then this crown of towers 
So shook to snch a roar of all the sky, 
That here iu utter dark I swoon'd away. 
And woke again iu utter dark, and cried, 
' I will flee hence and give myself to God ' — 
Aud thou wert lying in thy new lemau's arras." 

Then Tristram, ever dallying with her hand, 
"May God be with thee, sweet, when old and gray. 
And past desire I" a saying that anger'd her. 
"'May God be with thee, sweet, when thou art old. 
And sweet no more to me !' I need Him now. 
For when had Lancelot utter'd aught so gross 
Ev'n to the swineherd's malkiu in the mast? 
The greater man, the greater courtesy. 
Far other was the Tristram, Arthur's knight ! 
But thou, thro' ever harrying thy wild beasts — 
Save that to touch a harp, tilt with a lance 
Becomes thee well— art grown wild beast thyself. 
How darest thou, if lover, push me even 
Iu fancy from thy side, aud set me far 
In the gray distance, half a life away, 
Her to be loved no more ? Unsay it, unswear- 
Flatter me rather, seeing me so weak, 
Broken with Mark aud hate and solitude, 
Thy marriage and mine own, that I should suck 
Lies like sweet wines : lie to me : I be'.ieve. 
Will ye not lie? not swear, as there ye kneel. 
And solemnly as when ye sware to him, 
The man of men, our King— My God, the power 
Was once in vows when men believed the King ! 
They lied not then, who sAvare, and thro' their vow8 
The King prevailing made his realm :— 1 say. 
Swear to me thou wilt love me ev'n when old, 
Gray-hair'd, and past desire, and in despair." 

Then Tristram, pacing moodily up and down, 



208 



THE LAST TOURNAMENT. 



||yin[l||i|n^iTr^Ti!y™ 




**Ay, ay, oh ay !" 



"Vows! did yoii keep the vow you made to Mark 
More than I mine? Lied, say ye? Nay, bnt learnt, 
The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself— 
My knijuhlhood taught me this— ay, beins; snapt— 
We rnn more counter to the soul thereof 
Than had we never sworn. I swear no more. 
I swore to the great King, and am forsworn. 
For once— ev'n to the height— I honor'd him. 
' Man, is he man at nil ?' methoiight, when first 
I rode from our rough Lyonnesse, and beheld 
That victor of the Pagan tlironcd in hall— 
His hair, a sun that ray'd from off a brow 
Like hillsnow high in heaven, the steel-blue eyes, 
The golden beard that clothed his lips with light- 
Moreover, that weird legend of his birth, 
With Merlin's mystic babble about his end 
Amazed me ; then, his foot wae on a stool 



Shaped as a dragon ; he scem'd to me no man, 
But Michael trampling Satan ; so I sware. 
Being amazed : but this went by— The vows ! 
Oh ay— the wholesome madness of an hour— 
They served their use, their time ; for every knight 
Believed himself a greater than himself, 
And every follower eyed him as a God ; 
Till he, being lifted up beyond himself. 
Did mightier deeds than elsewise he had done, 
And so the realm was made ; but then their vows- 
First mainly thro' that sullying of our Queen- 
Began to gall the knighthood, asking whence 
Had Arthur right to bind them to himself? 
Dropt down fr<mi heaven? wash'd up from out the 

deep? 
They fail'd to trace him thro' the flesh and blood 
Of our old kings : whence then ? a doubtful lord 



GUINEVERE. 



201) 



To bind them by inviolable rows, 

Which flesh and blood perforce would violate : 

For feel this arm of mine— the tide within 

Ked with free chase and heather-scented air, 

Pulsing full man ; can Arthur make me pure 

As any maiden child ? lock up my tongue 

From uttering freely what I freely hear? 

Bind me to one? The wide world laughs at it. 

And worldling of flie world am I, and know 

The ptarmigan that whitens ere his hour 

Wooes his own end ; we are not angels here 

Nor shall be: vows — I am woodman of the woods, 

And hear the garnet-headed yaffiugale 

Mock them : my soul, we love but while we may ; 

And therefore is my love so large for thee. 

Seeing it is not bounded save by love." 

Here ending, he moved toward her, and she said, 
" Good : an I turn'd away my love for thee 
To some one thrice as courteous as thyself— 
For courtesy wins woman all as well 
As valor may, but he that closes both 
Is perfect, he is Lancelot — taller indeed, 
Rosier and comelier, thou — but say I loved 
Tills knightliest of all knights, and cast thee back 
Thine own small saw, 'We love but while we may,' 
Well then, what answer ?" 

He that while she spake. 
Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with. 
The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch 
The warm white apple of her throat, replied, 
"Press this a little closer, sweet, until — 
Come, I am hunger'd and half-auger'd — meat. 
Wine, wine — and I will love thee to the death, 
And out beyond into the dream to come." 

So then, when both were brought to full accord, 
She rose, and set before him all he will'd ; 
And afler these had comforted the blood 
With meats and wines, and satiated their hearts — 
Now talking of their woodland paradise, 
The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns; 
Now mocking at the much uugaiuliiiess. 
And craven shifts, and long crane legs of Mark — 
Then Tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang: 

"Ay, ay, oh ay — the winds that bend the brier I 
A star in heaven, a star within the mere ! 
Ay, ay, oh ay — a star was my desire. 
And one was for apart, and one was near: 
Ay, ay, oh ay — the winds that bow the grass 1 
And one was water and one star was fire. 
And one will ever shine and one will i)ass. 
Ay, ay, oh ay — the winds that move the mere." 

Then in the light's last glimmer Tristram show'd 
And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried, 
"The collar of some Order, which our King 
Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul, 
For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers." 

"Not so, my Queen," he said, "but the red fiuit 
Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven. 
And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize. 
And hither brought by Tristram for his last 
Love-oflfering and peace-offering unto thee." 

He rose, he turn'd, then, flinging round her neck, 
Claspt it, and cried, "'Thine Order, O my Queen '." 
But, while he bow'd to kiss the jewell'd throat. 
Out of the dark, just as the lips had touch'd. 
Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek— 
"Mark's way," said Mark, and clove him thro' the 
brain. 

That night came Arthur home, and while he 
climb'd, 




thy fool, 
And I shall never make thee smile agHin," 

All in a death-dumb, autumn-dripping gloom, 
The stairway to the hall, and look'd and saw 
The great Queen's bower was dark — about his feet 
A voice clung sobbing till he question'd it, 
"What art thou?"' and the voice about his feet 
Sent up an answer, sobbing, "1 am thy fool. 
And I shall never make thee smile again." 



GUINEVERE, 

Queen Guinevkrk had fled the court, and sat 
There in the holy house at Almesbury 
Weeping, none with her save a little maid, 
A iMvice.: one low light betwixt them buni'd 
Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all abroad. 
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full. 
The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face, 
Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still. 

For hither had she fled, her cause of flight 
Sir Modred ; he that like a subtle beast 
Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne. 
Ready to spring, waiting a chance: for this 
He chill'd the popular praises of the King 
With silent smiles of slow disparagement ; 
And tamper'd with the Lords of the White Hoise, 
Heathen, the brood by Hengist left ; and soiiglit 
To make disruption in the Table Rmmd 
Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds 
Serving his traitorous end; and all his nima 
Were sharpen'd by strong hate for Lancelot. 

For thus it chanced one morn when all the court, 
Green-suited, but with plumes that mock'd the may, 
Had been, their wont, a-maying and return'd, 
That Modred still in green, all ear and eve, 
Cliinb'd to the high top of the garden-wall 
To spy some secret scandal if he might, 



210 



GUINEVERE. 



Aud saw the Queen who sat betwixt her best 

Euid, and lissome Vivien, of her court 

The wiliest and the worst ; and more than this 

He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing l)y 

Spied where iie conch'd, and as the gardener's hand 

Picks from the colewort a green caterpillar, 

So from the high wall and the flowering grove 

Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by the heel, 

And cast him as a worm upon the way ; 

But when he knew the Prince tho' marr'd with dust, 

He, reverencing king's blood in a bad man. 

Made such excuses as he might, and these 

Full knightly without scorn ; for in those days 

No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in scorn ; 

But, if a man were halt or hunch'd, in him 

By those whom God had made fuU-limb'd aud tall. 

Scorn was allow'd as part of his defect, 

Aud he was answer'd softly by the King 

Aud all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp 

To raise the Prince, who rising twice or thrice 

Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, aud went : 

But, ever after, the small violence done 

Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart, 

As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long 

A little bitter pool about a stone 

On the bare coast. 

But when Sir Lancelot told 
This matter to the Queen, at first she laugU'd 
Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall. 
Then shudder'd, as the village wife who cries 
"I shudder, some one steps across my grave;" 
Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for indeed 
She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast, 
Would track her guilt until he found, and hers 
Would be for evermore a uame of scorn. 
Henceforward rarely could she front in hall. 
Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy face. 
Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye: 
Henceforward too, the Powers that tend the soul, 
To help it from the death that cannot die, 
And save it even in extremes, began 
To vex and plague her. Many a time for hours. 
Beside the placid breathings of the King, 
In the dead night, grim faces came and went 
Before her, or a vague spiritual fear — 
Like to some donbtful noise of creaking doors, 
Heard by the watcher in a haunted house. 
That keeps the rust of murder on the walls — 
Held her awake : or if she slept, she dreani'd 
An awful dream ; for then she seem'd to stand 
On some vast plain before a setting sun. 
And from the sun there swiftly made at her 
A ghastly something, aud its shadow flew 
Before it, till it touch'd her, and she turn'd — 
When lo ! her own, that broadening from her feet, 
And blackeniug, swallow'd all the land, aud in it 
Far cities burnt, and with a cry she woke. 
Aud all this trouble did not pass but grew ; 
Till ev'n the clear face of the guileless King, 
And trustful courtesies of household life. 
Became her bane ; and at the last she said, 
"O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine owu laud, 
For if thou tarry we shall meet again ; 
And if we meet again, some evil chance 
Will make the smouldering scandal break aud blaze 
Before the people, and our lord the King." 
And Lancelot ever promised, but remain'd, 
And still they met and met. Again she said, 
"O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee hence." 
And then they were agreed upon a uight 
(When the good King should not be there) to meet 
And part for ever. Passion-pale they met 
And greeted : hands in hands, and eye to eye. 
Low ou the border of her couch they sat 
Stammering and stariug: it was their last hour, 
A madness of farewells. And Modred brought 
His creatures to the basement of the tower 



For testimony; and crying with full voice 

"Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last," aroused 

Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike 

Leapt on him, and hurl'd him headlong, and he fell 

Stunn'd, and his creatures took and bare him off, 

.\nd all was still: theu she, "The end is come, 

Aud I am shamed for ever ;" and he said, 

"Mine be the shame; miue was the sin: but rise, 

And fly to my strong castle overseas: 

There will I hide thee, till my life shall end. 

There hold thee with my life against the world." 

She answer'd "Lancelot, wilt thou hold me so? 

Nay, frieud, for we have taken our farewells. 

Would God that thou couldst hide me from myself! 

Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thou 

Unwedded : yet rise now, and let us fly, 

For I will draw me into sanctuary, 

Aud bide my doom." So Lancelot got her horse, 

Set her thereon, aud mounted on his owu, 

And then they rode to the divided way. 

There kiss'd, and parted weeping : for he past, 

Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen, 

Back to his land ; but she to Almesbury 

Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald. 

And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald 

Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan : 

And in herself she moan'd " Too late, too late I" 

Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn, 

A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying high, 

Ci'oak'd, and she thought, "He spies a field of 

death ; 
For now the Heatheu of the Northern Sea, 
Lured by the crimes aud frailties of the court, 
Begiu to slay the folk, aud spoil the land." 

And when she came to Almesbury she spake 
There to the nuns, aud said, "Mine enemies 
Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, 
Receive, aud yield me sanctuary, nor ask 
Her name to whom ye yield it, till her time 
To tell you:" aud her beauty, grace, and power, 
Wrought as a charm upon them, aud they spared 
To ask it. 

So the stately Queen abode 
For many a week, unknown, among the nuns; 
Nor with them mix'd, nor told her name, nor sought, 
Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for shrift. 
But communed only with the little maid, 
Who pleased her with a babbling heedlessness 
Which ofieu lured her from herself; but now, 
This uight, a rumor wildly blown about 
Came, that Sir Modred had usurp'd the realm. 
And leagued him with the heathen, while the King 
Was waging war on Lancelot : then she thought, 
"With what a hate the people and the King 
Must hate me," aud bow'd down upon her hands 
Silent, until the little maid, who brook'd 
No silence, brake it, uttering, "Latel so late! 
What hour, I wonder, now?" and when she drew 
Nor answer, by and by begau to hum 
An air the nuns had taught her : " Late, so late !" 
Which when she heard, the Queen look'd up, and said, 
"O maiden, if indeed ye list to sing. 
Sing, and unbind my heart that I may weep." 
Whereat full willingly sang the little maid. 

"Late, late, so late ! and dark the night aud chill 
Late, late, so late I but we can enter still. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

"No light had we: for that we do repent; 
And learulng this, the bridegroom will relent. 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 

"No light: so late ! and dark and chill the nightl 
Oh, let us iu, that we may And the light ! 
Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter uow. 



/ ; 

GUINEVERE. 



,^AA^: 



21] 



"Have we not heard the biidegroom is so sweet? 
Oh, let lis in, tho" late, to liies his feet 1 
No, no, too late ! ye caiiuot euter now." 

So saug the novice, while full passionately, 
Her head upon her hands, remembering 
Her thought when first she came, wept the sad Queen. 
Then said the little novice, prattling to her, 

"Oh, pray yon, noble lady, weep no more; 
But let my words, the words of one so small, 
Who knowing nothing knows but to obey, 
And if I do not there is penance given — 
Comfort your sorrows; for they do not flow 
From evil done ; right sure am I of that. 
Who see your tender grace and stateliness. 
But weigh your sorrows with our lord the King's, 
Aud weighing find them less; for gone is he 
To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot there. 
Round that strong castle where he holds the Queen; 
And Modred whom he left in charge of all. 
The traitor— Ah ! sweet lady, the King's grief 
For his own self, and his own Queen, and realm, 
Must needs be thrice as great as any of ours. 
For me, I thank the saints, I am not great. 
For if there ever come a grief to me 
I cry my cry in silence, aud have done : 
None knows it, and my tears have brought me good : 
But even were the griefs of little ones 
As great as those of great ones, yet this grief 
Is added to the griefs the great must bear, 
That howsoever much they may desire 
Silence, they cannot weep behind a' cloud: 
As even here they talk at Almesbury 
About the good King and his wicked Queen, 
And were I such a King with such a Queen, 
Well might I wish to veil her wickedness ; 
But were I such a King, it could not be." 

Then to her own sad heart mutter'd the Queen, 
"Will the child kill me with her innocent talk?"' 
But openly she answer'd, " Must not I, 
If this false traitor have displaced his lord. 
Grieve with the common grief of all the realm?" 

"Yea," said the maid, "this is all woman's grief. 
That s/ie is woman, whose disloyal life 
Hath wrought confusion in the Table Round 
Which good King Arthur founded, years ago. 
With signs and miracles and wonders, there 
At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen." 

Then thonght the Queen within herself again, 
"Will the child kill me with her foolish prate?" 
But openly she spake and said to her, 
"O little maid, shut in by nunnery w.ills, 
What canst thou know of Kings and Tables Round, 
Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs 
Aud simple miracles of thy nunnery?" 

To whom the little novice garrnlonsly, 
"Yea, but I know: the land was full of signs 
And wonders ere the coming of the Qneeu. 
So said my father, and himself was knight 
Of the great Table— at the founding of it ; 
And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and he said 
That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain 
After the sunset, down the coast, he heard 
Strancre music, and he paused, and turning — there, 
All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse, 
Each with a beacon-star up(m his head. 
And with a wild sea-light about his feet. 
He saw them— hendland after headland flame 
Far on into the rich heart of the west: 
And in the light the white mermaiden swam, 
And strong man-breasted things stood from the sea. 
And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the laud. 
To which the little elves of chasm and cleft 



Made answer, sounding like a distant horn. 

So said my father — yea, and furthermore. 

Next morning, while he past the dim-lit woods. 

Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy 

Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower, 

That shook beneath them, as the thistle shakes 

When three gray linnets wrangle for the seed : 

And still at evenings on before his horse 

The flickering fairy-circle wheel'd and broke 

Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd and broke 

Flying, for all the land was full of life. 

And when at last he came to Camelot, 

A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand 

Swung round the lighted lantern of the hall ; 

And in the hall itself was such a feast 

As never man had dream'd ; for every knight 

Had whatsoever meat he long'd for served 

By hands unseen ; and even as he said 

Down in the cellars merry bloated tliiugs 

Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on the butts 

While the wine ran : so glad were spirits and men 

Before the coming of the sinful Queen." 

Then spake the Queen and somewhat bitterly, 
"Were they so glad? ill prophets were they all. 
Spirits and men : could none of them foresee. 
Not even thy wise father with his signs 
And wonders, what has fall'n upon the realm ?" 

To whom the novice garrulously again, 
"Yea, one, a bard; of whom my father said, 
Full many a noble war-song had he sung, 
Ev'u in the presence of an enemy's fleet. 
Between the steep cliflT and the coming wave; 
And many a mystic lay of life and death 
Had chanted on the smoky mountain-tops. 
When round him bent the spirits of the hills 
With all their dewy hair blown back like flame : 
So said my father — and that night the bard 
Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang the King 
As welluigh more than man, and rail'd at those 
Who call'd him the false son of Gorlois : 
For there was no man knew from whence he came ; 
But after tempest, when the long wave broke 
All down the thundering shores of Bude and Bos, 
There came a day as still as heaven, and then 
They found a naked child upon the sands 
Of dark Tintagil by the Cornish sea: 
And that was Arthur; and they foster'd him 
Till he by miracle was approven King: 
And that his grave should be a mystery 
From all men, like his birth ; and could he find 
A woman in her womanhood as great 
As he was in his manhood, then, he sang, 
The twain together well might change the world. 
But even in the middle of his song 
He falter'd, and his hand fell from the harp. 
And pale he turu'd, and reel'd, and would have 

tall'n. 
But that they stay'd him up ; nor would he tell 
His vision ; but what doubt that he foresaw 
This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen ?" 

Then thought the Queen, " Lo .' they have set her 
on. 
Our simple-seeming Abbess and her nuns. 
To play upon me," and bowed her head nor spake. 
Whereat the novice crying, with clasp'd hands. 
Shame on her own garrulity garrulously. 
Said the good nuns would check her gadding tongue 
Full often, " and, sweet lady, if I seem 
To vex an ear too sad to listen to me. 
Unmannerly, with prattling and the tales 
Which my good father told me, check me too : 
Nor let me shame my father's memory, one 
Of noblest manners, tho' himself would sa^^ 
Sir Lancelot had the noblest ; and he died, 
Kill'd iu a tilt, come next, five summers back. 



212 



GUINEVERE. 



Aud left me ; but of others who remain, 

Aud of the two flrst-famed for coiii'tesy — 

And pray you check me if I ask amiss — 

But pray you, which had uoblest, while you moved 

Among them, Lancelot, or our lord the King?" 

Then the pale Queen look'd up and auswer'd her, 
" Sir Laucelot, as became a noble knight, 



Then Lancelot's needs must be a thousand-fold 

Less uoble, being, as all rumor runs. 

The most disloyal friend in all the world." 

To which a mournful answer made the Queen : 
" Oh, closed about by narrowing uunuery-walls, 
What knowest thou of the world, and all its lighu 
Aud shadows, all the wealth and all the woe? 




" While he past the dim-lit woods, 
Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy 
Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower." 



Was gracious to all ladies, and the same 
la open battle or the tilting-field 
Forbore his own advantage, and the King 
lu open battle or the tilting-fteld 
Forbore his own advantage, and these two 
Were the most uobly-manner'd men of all ; 
For ninuners are not idle, but the fruit 
Of loyal nature, aud of noble mind." 

"Yea." said the maid. " be manners such fair fruit? 



If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight, 
Were for one hour less noble than himself, 
Pray for him tliat he 'scape the doom of lire, 
And weep for her who drew him to his doom." 

"Yea," said the little novice, "I pray for both; 
But I should all as soon believe that his, 
Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the King's, 
As I could think, sweet lady, yours would be 
Such as they are, were you the sinful Queen." 



GUINEVERE. 



21:} 



So she, like mauy auother babbler, hurt 
Whom she would soothe, aud harm'd where she 

would heal ; 
For here a sudden flush of wrathful heat 
Fired all the pale face of the Queen, who cried, 
" Such as thou art be never maiden more 
For ever! thou their tool, set on to plague 
And play upon, and harry me, petty spy 
Aud iraitrebs." When that storm of aMj,'er brake 
From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose, 
White as her veil, and stood befoie the Queen 
As tremulously as foam upon the beach 
Stands in a wind, ready to break aud fly, 
And when the Queen had added "Get tliee hence,"' 
Fled frighted. Then that other left alone 
Sigh'd, and began to gather heart again, 
Saying in herself, "The simple, fearful child 
Meant nothing, but my own too-fearful guilt, 
Simpler than any child, betrays itself. 
But help me, heaven, for surely I repent. 
For what is true repentance but in thought — 
Not ev'ii in inmost thought to think agaiu 
The sins that made the past so pleasant to us : 
And 1 have sworn never to see him more, 
To see him more." 



Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern Sea ; 
Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right arm, 
The mightiest of my knights, abode with me, 
Have everywhere about tliis laud of Christ 
In twelve great battles ruining overthrown. 
And knowest thou now from whence I come— from 

him. 
From waging bitter war with him : aud he, 
That did not shun to smite me in worse way, 
Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left, 
He spared to lift his hand against the King 
Who made him knight: but mauy a knight was 



' And ev'n in saying this, 

Her memory from old habit of the mind 
Went slipping back upon the goldeu days 
In which she saw him flrst, when Lancelot came, 
Reputed the best knight and goodliest man, 
Ambassador, to lead her to his lord 
Arthur, aud led her forth, and far ahead 
Of his aud her retinue moving, they, 
Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love 
And sport and tilts and pleasure (for the time 
Was Maytime, aud as yet no sin was dream'd), 
Rode under groves that look'd a paradise 
Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth 
That seem'd the heavens upbreaking thro' the earth, 
Aud on from hill to hill, and every day 
Beheld at noon in some delicious dale 
The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised 
For brief repast or afternoon repose 
By couriers gone before; and on again. 
Till yet once more ere set of sun they saw 
The Dragon of the great Peudragouship, 
That crowu'd the state pavilion of the King, 
Blaze by the rushing brook or silent well. 

But when the Queen immersed in such a trance, 
And moving thro' the past unconsciously, 
Came to that point where first she saw the King 
Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd to find 
Her journey, done, glanced at him, thought him cold 
High, self-contaiu'd, and passionless, not like him, 
"Not like my Lancelot" — while she brooded thus 
And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again. 
There rode an armed warrior to the doors. 
A murmuring whisper thro' the nunnery ran, 
Then on a sudden a cry, "The King." She sat 
Slifl"-stricken, listening; but when armed feet 
Thro' the long gallery from the outer doors 
Rang coming, prone from off" her seat she fell. 
And grovell'd with her face against the floor : 
There with her niilkwhite arms and shadowy hair 
She made her fare a darkness from the King: 
And in the darkness heard his armed feet 
Pause by her; then came silence, then a voice. 
Monotonous and hollow like a ghost's 
Denouncing judgment, but tho' changed, the King's 

" Liest thou here so low, the child of one 
I honor'd, happy, dead before thy shame ? 
Well is it that no child is born of thee. 
The children born of thee are sword and Are, 
Red ruin, and the breakiug-up of laws, 
The craft of kindred and the godless hosts 



Aud mauy more, aud all his kith and kin 

Clave to him, and abode in his own land. 

And many more when Modied raised revolt. 

Forgetful of their troth aud fealty, clave 

To Modred, and a remnant stays with me. 

And of this remnant will I leave a part. 

True men who love me still, for whom I live. 

To guard thee in the wild hour coming on, 

Lest but a hair of this low head be harm'd. 

Fear not: thou shalt be guarded till my death. 

Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies 

Have err"d not, that I march to meet my doom. 

Thou hast not made my lile so sweet to me, 

That I the King should greatly care to live ; 

For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life. 

Bear with me for the last time while I show, 

Ev'n for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinu'd. 

For wlien the Roman left us, and their law 

Relax'd its hold upon us, and the ways 

Were fill'd with rapine, hei-e aud there a deed 

Of prowess done redress'd a random wrong. 

But I was flrst of all the kings who drew 

Tlie knighthood-errant of this realm and all 

The realms together under me, their Head, 

In that fair Order of my Table Round, 

A glorious company, the flower of men. 

To serve as model for the mighty world. 

And be the fair beginning of a time. 

I made them lay their hands in mine and s'.vear 

To reverence the King, as if he were 

Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, 

To break the heathen aud uphold the Christ, 

To ride abroad redressing human wioiigs. 

To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, 

_ J^o honor his own word as if his God's, 

To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, 
To love o)ie maiden only, cleave to her, 
And worship her by y.fia*8-X)T noble deeds, 
Until they won her ; for indeed I knew 
Of no more subtle master under heaven 
Thau is the maiden passion for a maid. 
Not only to keep down the base in man. 
But teach high thought, and amiable words 
And coiutliness, and the desire of fame. 
And love of truth, and all that makes a man. 
"TStid all this throve before I wedded thee. 
Believing, 'lo mine helpmate, one to feel 
My purpose and rejoicing in my joy.' 
Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot; 
Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt ; 
Then others, following these my mightiest knights. 
And drawing foul ensample from fair names, 
Siun'd also, till the loathsome opposite 
Of all my heart had destined did obtain. 
And all thro' thee 1 so that this life of mine 
I guard as God's high gift from scathe and wrong, 
Not greatly care to lose ; but rather think 
How sad it were for Arthur, should he live. 
To sit once more within his lonely hall, 
And miss the wonted number of my knights. 
And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds 
As in the golden days before thy sin. 
For which of us, who might be left, could speak 
Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee? 
And iu thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk 



214 



GUINEVERE. 



Thy shadow still would glide from room to room, 

And I should evermore he vext with thee 

In hangiug robe or vacant ornament, 

Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. 

For think not, tho' thou wouldst not love thj- lord, 

Thy lord has wholly lost his love f<n' thee. 

I am not made of so slight elements. 

Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame. 

I hold that man the worst of public foes 

"Who either for his own or children's sake. 

To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife 

Whom he knows false, abide and rule the house: 

For being thro' his cowardice allow'd 

Her station, taken everywhere for pure. 

She like a new disease, unknown to men. 

Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd, 

Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and saps 

The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse 

With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young. 

Worst of the worst were that man he that reigns ! 

Better the King's waste hearth and aching heart 

Than thou reseated in thy place of light. 

The mockery of my people, and their bane." 

He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch 
Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet. 
Far off a solitary trumpet blew. 
Then waiting by the doors the warhorse neigh'd 
As at a friend's voice, and he spake again : 

"Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes, 
I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, 
I, whose vast pity almost makes me die 
To see thee, laying there thy golden head, 
My pride in happier summers, at my feet. 
The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce 

law, 
The doom of treason and the flaming death 
(When first I learnt thee hidden here), is i>ast. 
The pang — which while I weigh'd thy heart with one 
Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee. 
Made my tears burn — is also past, in part. 
And all is past, the sin is siun'd, and I, 
Lo ! I forgive thee, as Eternal God 
Forgives: do thou for thine own soul the rest. 
But how to take last leave of all I loved ? 

golden hair, with which I used to play 
Not knowing ! O imperial-moulded form, 
And beauty such as woman never wore, 
Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee — 

1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine. 

But Lancelot's: nay, they never were the King's. 

I cannot take thy hand ; that too is flesh, 

And in the flesh thou hast siun'd; and mine own 

flesh, 
Here looking down on thine polluted, cries, 
'I loathe thee:' yet not less, O Guinevere, 
For I was ever virgin save for thee, 
My love thro' flesh hath wrought into my life 
So far, that my doom is, I love thee still. 
Let no man dream but that I love thee still, 
Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul, 
And so thou lean on our fair father Christ, 
Hereafter in that world where all are pure 
We two may meet before high God, and thou 
Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know 
I am thine husband— not a smaller soul. 
Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, 
I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence. 
Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet blow : 
They sumnum me their King to lead mine hosts 
Far down to that great battle in the west. 
Where I must strike against the man they call 
My sister's son — no kin of mine, who leagues 
With Lords of the White Horse, heathen, and knights. 
Traitors — and strike him dead, and meet myself 
Death, or I know not what mysterious doom. 
Aud thou remaining here wilt learn the event ; 



But hither shall I never come again. 
Never lie by thy side ; see thee no more- 
Farewell !" 

And while she grovell'd at his feet. 
She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck, 
And in the darkness o'er her fallen head. 
Perceived the waving of his hands that blest. 

Then, listening till those armed steps were gone, 
Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish found 
The casement : " peradventure," so she thought, 
"If I might see his face, and not be seen.'' 
And lo, he sat on horseback at the door ! 
And near him the sad nuns with each a light 
Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen, 
To guard and foster her for evermore. 
And while he spake to these his helm was lower'd, 
To which for crest the golden dragon clung 
Of Britain; so she did not see the face 
Which then vras as an angel's, but she saw. 
Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights, 
The Dragon of the great Peiidragouship 
Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire: 
And even then he turn'd ; and more and more 
The moony vapor rolling round the King, 
Who seem'd the phantom of a Giant in it, 
Euwound him fold by fold, and made him gray 
And grayer, till himself became as mist 
Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom. 

Then she stretch'd out her arms and cried aloud 
"O Arthur!" there her voice brake suddenly. 
Then — as a stream that spouting from a cliff 
Pails in mid-air, but gathering at the base 
Re-makes itself, and flashes down the vale — 
Went ou in passionate utterance: 

"Gone— my lordl 
Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be slain ! 
Aud he forgave me, and I could not speak. 
Farewell ? I should have answer'd his farewell. 
His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord the King, 
My own true lord ! how dare I call him miue ? 
The shadow of another cleaves to me. 
And makes me one pollution : he, the King, 
Call'd me polluted : shall I kill myself? 
What help in that? I cannot kill my sin,] 
If soul be soul ; nor can I kill my shame ; 
No, nor by living can I live it down. 
The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months, 
The months will add themselves and make the years, 
The years will roll into the centuries, 
And mine will ever be a name of scorn. 
I must not dwell on that defeat of fame. 
Let the world be ; that is but of the wbrld. 
What else? what hope? I think there was a hope, 
Except he mock'd me when he spake of hope; 
His hope he call'd it; but he never mocks, 
For mockery is the fume of little hearts. 
And blessed be the Kiu";, who hath forgiven 
My wickedness to him,tand let me hope 
That in mine own heart I can live down sin 
And be his mate hereafter in the heavens 
Before high God. J Ah, great and gentle lord. 
Who wast, as is fne conscience of a saint 
Among his warring senses, to thy knights— 
To whom my false voluptuous pride, that took 
Full easily all impressions from below. 
Would not look up, or half-despised the height 
To which I would not or I could not climb — 
I thought I could not breathe in that fine air 
That pure severity of perfect light — 
I wanted warmth and color which I found 
In Lancelot — now I see thee what thou art. 
Thou art the highest and most human too. 
Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there none 
Will tell the King I love him tho' so late ? 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



21t 



Now — ere he soes to the <xreat Battle ? none : 
Myself must tell him in that purer life, 
But now it were too daring. Ah my God, 
What might I not have made of thy fair world, 
Had I but loved thy highest creature here? 
It was my duty to have loved the highest : 
It surely was my profit had I known : 
It would have been my pleasure had I seen. 
We needs must love the highest when we see it, 
Not Lancelot, nor another." 

Here her hand 
Grasp'd, made her veil her eyes: she look'd and saw 
The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to her, 
"Yea, little muid, for am / not forgiven?" 
Then glancing up beheld the holy nuns 
All round her, weeping ; and her heart was loosed 
Within her, and she wept with these and said, 

"Ye know me then, that wicked one, who broke 
The vast design and purpose of the King. 
Oh, shut me round with narrowing nunnery-walls, 
Meek maidens, from the voices crying 'shame.' 
I must not scorn myself: he loves me still. 
Let no one dream but that he loves me still. 
So let me, if you do not shudder at me 
Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you ; 
Wear black and white, and be a nun like yon. 
Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts ; 
Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys, 
But not rejoicing ; mingle with your rites ; 
Pray and be pray'd for; lie before your shrines; 
Do each low office of your holy house ; 
Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole 
To poor sick people, richer in His eyes 
Who rausom'd us, and baler too than I ; 
And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own, 
yAnd so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer 
The sombre close of that voluptuous day, 
Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King." 

She said: they took her to themselves; and she, 
Still hoping, fearing, "is it yet too late?" 
Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess died. 
Then she, for her good deeds and her pure life, 
And for the power of ministration in her. 
And likewise for the high rank she had borne, 
Was chosen Abbess; there, an Abbess, lived 
For three brief years ; and there, an Abbess, past 
To where beyond these voices there is peace. 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 

That story which the bold Sir Bedivere, 
First made and latest left of all the knights, 
Told, when the man was no more than a voice 
In the white winter of his age, to those 
With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds. 

For on their march to westward Bedivere, 
Who slowly paced among the slumbering host. 
Heard in his tent the moanings of the King : 

" I found Him in the shining of the stars, 
I mark'd Him in the flowering of His fields. 
But in His ways with men I find Him not, 
I waged His wars, and now I pass and die. 
O me! for why is albaronud us here 
As if some lesser god had made the world. 
But had not force to shape it as he would. 
Till the High God behold it from beyond. 
And enter it, and make it beautiful? 
Or else as if the world were wholly fair. 
But that these eyes of men are dense and dim. 
And have not power to see it as it is 



Perchance, because we see not to the close ; 
For I, being simple, thought to work His will. 
And have but stricken with the sword in vain; 
And all whereon I lean'd in wife and friend 
Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm 
Reels back into the beast, and is no more. 
My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death : 
Nay— God my Christ— I pass, but shall not die." 

Then, ere that last weird battle in the west, 
There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain kill'd 
In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain blown 
Along a wandering wind, and past his ear 
Went shrilling, "Hollow, hollow all delight! 
Hail, King ! to-morrow thou shalt pass away. 
Farewell ! there is au isle of rest for thee. 
And I am blown along a wandering wind. 
And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight." 
And fainter onward, like wild birds that change 
Their season in the night and wail their way 
From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream 
Shrill'd ; but in going mingled with dim cries 
Far in the moonlit haze among the hills, 
As of some lonely city sack'd by night. 
When all is lost, and wife and child with wail 
Pass to new lords ; and Arthur woke and call'd, 
"Who spake? A drearp. Oh, light upon the wind, 
Thine, Gawaiji, was the voice — are these dim cries 
Thine ? or doth all that haunts the waste and wild 
Mourn, knowing it will go along with me ?" 

This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake: 
"O me, my King, let pass whatever will. 
Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field; 
But in their stead thy name and glory cling 
To all high places like a golden cloud 
For ever : but as yet thou shalt not pass. 
Light was Gawain in life, and light in death 
Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man ; 
And care not thou for dreams fiom him, but rise — 
I hear the steps of Modred in the west. 
And with him many of thy people, and knights 
Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown 
Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee. 
Right well in heart they know thee for the King. 
Arise, go forth and conquer as of old." 

Then spake. King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : 
"Far other is this battle in the west 
Whereto we move, than when we strove in youth. 
And brake the petty kings, and fought with Rome, 
Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall. 
And shook him thro' the north. Ill doom is mine 
To war against my people and my knights. 
The king who fights his people fights himself. 
And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke 
That strikes them dead is as my death to me. 
Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way 
Thro' this blind haze, which ever since I saw 
One lying in the dust at Almesbury, 
Hath folded in the passes of the world." 

Then rose the King and moved' his host by night, 
And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by league, 
Back to the sunset boiind of Lyonnesse — 
A land of old upheaven from the abyss 
By fire, to sink into the abyss again ; 
Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt. 
And the long mountains ended in a coast 
Of ever-shifting sand, and far away 
The phantom circle of a moaning sea. 
There the pursuer could pursue no more. 
And he that fled no further fly the King; 
And there, that day when the great light of heaven 
Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year. 
On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed. 
Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight 
Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west. 



216 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



A deathwhite mist slept over simd and sea : 

Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew 

Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold 

With formless fear; and ev'n on Arthur fell 

I'onfusion, since he saw not whom he fought. 

For friend and foe were shadows in the mist. 

And friend slew friend not knowinj/ whom he slew; 

And some had visions out of golden youth, 

And some beheld the faces of old ghosts 

Look iu upon the battle; and in the mist 

Was many a noble deed, many a bafC, 

And chance and craft and strength in single fights. 

And ever and anou with host to host 

Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail 

hewn, 
Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash 
Of battleaxes on shatter'd helms, and shrieks 
After the Christ, of those who falling down 
Look'd up for heaven, and only saw the mist ; 
And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights, 
Oaths, insult, tilth, and monstrous blasphen>ies, 
Sweat, writhings, anguish, laboring of the lungs, 
In that close mist, and cryings for the light, 
Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead. 

Last, as by some one deathbed after wail 
Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' death 
Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore. 
Save for some whisper of the seething seas, 
A dead hush fell ; but when the dolorous day 
Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came 
A bitter wind, clear from the north, and blew 
The mist aside, and with that wind the tide 
Hose, and the pale King glanced across the field 
Of battle : but no man was moving there ;' - 
Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon, 
Nor yet of heathen ; only the wan wave 
Brake in among dead faces, to and fro 
Swaying the helpless hands, and uj) and down 
Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen, 
And shiver'd brands that once had fought with Rome, 
And rolling far along the gloomy shores 
The voice of days of old and days to be. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere, 
And whiter than the mist that all day long 
Had held the field of battle was the King : 

" nearest thou this great voice that shakes the 
world. 
And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move, 
And beats upon the faces of the dead, 
My dead, as tho' they had not died for me? — 
O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall'n 
Confusion, till I know not what I am. 
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King, 
Behold, I seem but King among the dead." 

Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: "My King, 
King everywhere ! and so the dead have kings. 
There also will I worship thee as King. 
Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live 
Who love thee ; but who hates thee, he that brought 
The heathen back among n;!, jvoiffier stands, 
Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine house." 

Then spake the King : " My house hath been my 
doom. 
But call not thon this traitor of my house 
Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me. 
My house are rather they who sware my vows, 
Yea, even while they brake them, own'd me King. 
And well for thee, saying in my dark hour. 
When all the purport of my throne hath fail'd. 
That quick or dead thon boldest me for King. 
King am I, whatsoever be their cry : 
And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see 
Yet, ere I pass." And uttering this the King 



Made at the man : then Modred smote his liege 
Hard on that helm which many a heatlien sword 
Had beaten thin ; while Arthur at one blow, 
Striking the las-t stroke with Excalibur, 
Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell. 

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 
Among the mountains by the winter sea; 
Until King Arthur's Table, man by man. 
Had fall'n in Lyonnesse about their lord, 
King Arthur. Then, because his wound was dee[>, 
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him. 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a bioken cross, 
That stood on a dark strait of barren laud: 
On (me side lay the Ocean, and on one 
Lay a great water, and the moon was full. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights / 
Whereof this world holds record. Sticb a sleep 
They sleep^the men I loved. I think that we 
Shall never more, at any future time. 
Delight onr souls with talk of knightly deeds, 
Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Cainelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I shonld come again 
To rule once more ; but, let what will be, be, 
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
That without help I cannot last till morn. 
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, 
Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how 
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm 
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
Holding the sword — and how 1 row'd across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a king; 
And, wheresoever I am sung or told 
In afiertime, this alsi> shall be known : 
But now delay not: take Excalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle mere: 
Wiitch what thou seost, and lightly bring me word." 

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
"It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm — 
A little thing may harm a wounded man; 
Yjet^J thy best will all perform at full, 
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." 

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept, 
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs. 
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, 
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang 
Shrill, chill, with fiakes of foam. He, stepping down 
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 
Came on the shining levels of the hike. 

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. 
Brightening the skiits of a long cloud, ran forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood. 
This way and that dividing the swift mind. 
In ijct to throw : but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted waterfiags. 
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 
So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 
"Hast thou peiform'd my mission which I gave? 
What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ?" 



THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. 



217 



And answer mjide the bt)ld Sir Bcdivere : 
"I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 
And the wild water lapping on the crag." 

To whom replied King Arthur, faiut and pale : 
"J'hou hast betray'd ihy nature and thy name. 
Not rendering true answer, as besteni'd 
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight : 
For surer sign had followd, either hand, 
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again. 
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." 

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time 
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere. 
Counting the dewy jiebbles, lix'd in thought; 
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote 
His palms together, and he cried aloud : 

"And if indeed I cast the brand away, 
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth. 
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. 
What good should follow this, if this were doue? 
What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey, 
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 
An act unprofitable, against himself? 
The King is sick, and knows not what he does. 
What record, or what relic of my lord 
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath 
And rumors of a doubt? But were this kept. 
Stored in some tieasure-house of mighty kings. 
Some one might show it at a joust of arms. 
Saying, 'King Arthur's swcu'd, Excalibur, 
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. 
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' 
So might some old man speak in the aftertime 
To all the people, winning reverence. 
But now much honor and much fame were lost." 

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, 
And hid Excalibur the second time, 
And so strode back slow to the wounded King. 

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: 
"What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
"I heard the water lapping on the crag, 
And the long ripple washing iu the reeds." 

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: 
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
Unknightly, traitor-hearted 1 Woe is me ! 
Authority forgets a dying king, 
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye 
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art, 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights. 
In whom should meet the offices of all, 
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; 
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 
And the third time may prosper, get thee heuce : 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
1 will arise and slay thee with my hands." 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran. 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged 
,\mong the bulrush beds, and clutch'd the sword. 
And strongly wheel'd, and threw it. The great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon. 
And flashing round and round, and whirl'diu an arch, 



Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, 
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 
By night, with noises of the Northern Sea. 
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : 
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
And caught him by the hilt, and braudish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 
And lightly went the other to the King. 

Then sjioke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: 
"Now see I by thine eyes that this is doue. 
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?" 

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : 
"Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems 
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw. 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, 
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men. 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
That caught him by the hilt and braudish'd him 
Three times, and drew him under iu the mere." 

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard : 
"My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, 
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear 
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." 

So saying, from the pavement he half rose, 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes 
As iu a pictuie. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, 
And would have spoken, but he found not words; 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, 
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands. 
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. 

But, as he wnlk'd. King Arthur panted hard, 
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed 
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, 
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick I 
I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd, 
Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry 
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. 
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
And barren chasms, and all to left and right 
The bare black clift' clang'd round him, as he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang 
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels— 
And on a sudden, lo I the level lake. 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, 
Beneatli them ; and descending they were ware 
That all the decks were dense with stately forms, 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these 
,Three queeus with crowns of gold : and from them 

rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars. 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one comes. 
Or hath come, since the making of the world. 

Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge." 
So to the baige they came. There those three (jneens 
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. 
But she, that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, 



218 



TO THE QUEEN. 



Aud loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, 

And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, 

And dropping bitter tears against a brow 

Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white 

And colorless, aud lil^e the wither'd moon 

Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ; 

Aud all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops 

Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls— 

That made his forehead like a rising sun 

High from the dais-throne— were parch'd with dust; 

Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 

Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 

So like a shatter'd column lay the King ; 

Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, 

Prom spur to plume a star of tournanieut, 

Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 

Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere: 
"Ah I my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? 
For now I see the true old times are dead. 
When every morning brought a noble chance. 
And every chance brought out a noble knight. 
Such times have been not since the light that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
But now the whole Round Table is dissolved, 
Which was an image of the mighty world, 
And 1, the last, go fiu-th companionless, 
And the days darken round me, and the years,' 
Among new men, strange faces, other minds." 

And slowly aiiswer'd Arthur from the barge: 
"The old order chaugeth, yielding place to new. 
And God fulfils himself in many ways. 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 
I have lived my life, and that which I have done 
May He within himself make pure! but thou. 
If thou shouklst never see my face again, 
■ Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 
Kise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain. 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 
Both for themselves aud those who call them friend? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 



With these thou seest— if indeed I go 

(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) — 

To the island-valley of Aviliou ; 

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow. 

Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies 

Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns 

And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea. 

Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." 

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death. 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere 
Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, 
Aud on the mere the wailing died away. 

But when that moan had past for evermore. 
The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn 
Amazed him, aud he groan'd, "TheJiing is gone." 
And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme, 
"From the great deep to the great deep he goes." 

Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly clomb 
The last hard footstep of that inm crag ; 
Thence mark'd the black hull moving yet, and cried, 
"He passes to be King among the dead. 
And after healing of his grievous wound 
He comes again ; but — if he come no more — 
O me, be yon dark queens in yon black boat, 
Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three whereat we gazed 
On that high day, when, clothed with living light. 
They stood before his throne in silence, friends 
Of Arthur, who should help him at his need ?" 

Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint 
As from beyond the limit of the world. 
Like the last echo born of a great cry, 
Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice 
Around a king returning from his wars. 

Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb 
Ev'n to the highest he could climb, and saw. 
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand. 
Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King, 
Down that long water opening on the deep 
Somewhere far off", pass on aud on, and go 
From less to less and vanish into light. 
Aud the new suu rose bringing the new year. 



TO THE OUEEN. 



O LOTAi. to the royal in thyself, 
And loyal to thy land, as this to thee — 
Bear witness, that rememberable day. 
When, pale as yet, and fever-worn, the Prince 
Who scarce had pluck'd his flickering life agaiu 
From halfway down the shadow of the grave. 
Past with thee thro' thy people and their love, 
Aud London roll'd one tide of joy thro' all 
Her trebled millions, aud loud leagues of man 
And welcome ! witness, too, the silent cry. 
The prayer of many a race and creed and clime— 
Thunderless lightnings striking under sea 
From sunset and sunrise of all thy realm. 
And that true North, whereof we lately heard 
A strain to shame us "keep you to yourselves; 
So loyal is too costly ! friends— your love 
Is but a burthen: loose the bond, and go." 
Is this the tone of empire? here the faith 
That made us rulers ? this, indeed, her voice 
And meaning, whom the roar of Ilougoum.ont 



Left mightiest of all peoples under heaven ? 
What shock has fool'd her since, that she should speak 
So feebly? wealthier— wealthier— hour by hour! ' 
The voice of Britain, or a sinking land. 
Some third-rate isle half-lost among her seas? 
There rang her voice, when the full city peal'd 
Thee and thy Prince ! The loyal to their crown 
Are loyal to their own far sons, who love 
Our ocean-empire with her boundless homes 
For ever-broadening England, and her throne 
In our vast Orient, and one isle, one isle. 
That knows not her own greatness : if she knows 
Aud dreads it we are fall'n. — But thou, my Queen, 
Not for itself, but thro' thy living love 
For one to whom I made it o'er his grave 
Sacred, accept this old imperfect tale. 
New-old, and shadowing Sense at war with Soul 
Rather than that gray king, whose name, a ghost. 
Streams like a cloud, man -shaped, from mouutain 
peak, 



TO THE QUEEN. 



219 



Aud cleaves to caini and cromlech still ; or him 
Of Geoffrey's book, or him of Miilleor's, one 
Touch'd by the adulterous finger of a time 
That hover'd between war and wantonness, 
And crownings and dethronements: take withal 
Thy poet's blessing, aud his trust that Heaveu 
Will blow the tempest in the distance back 
From thine and ours : for some are scared, who mark, 
Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm, 
Waverings of every vane with every wind, 
And wordy trucklings to the transient hour, 
And fierce or careless looseners of the faith, 
Aud Softness breeding scuru of simple life, 



Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold, 
Or Labor, with a groau aud not a voice. 
Or Art with poisonous honey stol'u from France, 
And that which knows, but careful for itself, 
And that which knows uot, ruling that which knows 
To its own harm : the goal of this great world 
Lies beyond sight: yet — if our slowly-grown 
And crown'd Republic's crowniug common-sense, 
That saved her many times, not fail— their fears 
Are morning shadows huger than the shapes 
That cast them, uot those gloomier which forego 
The darkness of that battle in the West, 
Where all of high and holy dies away. 







ELAINE. 

And the dead 
Steer'd by the dumb went upward with the flood- 
In her right hand the lily, in her left 
The letter. 



[See page 190. 



220 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm ; 
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; 
Beyond, red roofj^ abont a narrow wharf 
In cluster ; then a moulder'd church ; and higher 
A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill ; 
And high in heaven behind it a gray down 
With Danish barrows ; and a hazel-wood, 
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 
Green in a cuplike hollow of the dowu. 

Here on this beach a hundred years ago, 
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, 
The prettiest little damsel in the port, 
And Pliilip Ray, the miller's only son, 
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd 
Among the waste and lumber of the shore, 
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy flshing-ncts. 
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats up-drawn ; 
And built their castles of dissolving sand 
To watch them overflow'd, or following up 
And flying the white breaker, daily left 
The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff: 
In this the children play'd at keeping liouse. 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next. 
While Annie still was mistress; but at times 
Enocn would hold possession for a week : 
"This is my house and this my little wife." 
"Mine too," said Philip, "turn and turn abont:" 
When, ii they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger-made 
Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears. 
Shriek out, "I hate you, Enoch," and at this 
The little wife would weep for company, 
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake. 
And say she would be little wife to both. 

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, 
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun 
Was felt by either, either flxt his heart 
On that one girl : and Enoch spoke his love, 
But Philip loved in silence ; and the girl 
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him ; 
But she loved Enoch ; tho' she knew it not, 
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set 
A purjiose evermore before his eyes, 
To hoard all savings to the uttermost, 
To purchase his own boat, and make a home 
For Annie: and so prosper'd that at last 
A luckier or a bolder fisherman, 
A carefulier in peril, did not breathe 
For leagues along tliat breaker-beaten coast 
Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year 
On board a merchantman, and made himself 
Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a life 
From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas 
And all men look'd upon him favorably: 
And ere he tonch'd his oneand-twentieth May, 
lie purchased his own boar, and made a home 
For Annie, neat and nestlike, half-way u)) 
The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill. 

Then on a golden autumn eventide, 
The younger people making holiday. 
With bag and sack and basket, great and small, 
Went nutting to the hazels, Philio stay'd 



(His father lying sick and needing him) 
An hour behind ; but as he climbed the hiVi, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, 
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand, 
i His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 
All-kindled by a still and sacred fiie. 
That burned as on an altar. Philip look'd, 
And in their eyes and faces read his doom; 
Then, as their faces grew together, groau'd 
And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 
Crept down into the hollows of the wood ; 
There, while the rest were loud with merry-makinf., 
Had his dark hour unfeen. and rope and past 
Bearing a lifelong burden in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells. 
And merrily ran the years, seven happy years, 
Seven happy years of health and competence. 
And mutual love and honorable toil; 
With children ; first a daughter. In him woke. 
With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish 
To save all earnings to the uttermost. 
And give his child a better briuging-up 
Thau his had been, or hers; a wish reuew'd, 
When two years after came a boy to be 
The rosy idol of her solitudes. 
While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, 
Or often journeying landward ; for in truth 
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean-spoQ 
In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, 
Rough-reddeu'd with a thousand winter-galss, 
Not only to the market-cross were known, 
But in the leafy lanes behind the down, 
Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp. 
And peacock-yewtree of the jonely Hali, 
Whose Friday fare was Euoca's ministering. 

Then came a change, as all things human change. 
Ten miles to northward of the narrow port 
Open'd a larger haven: thither nsed 
Enoch at limes to go by land or sea; 
And once when there, and clambering on a mast 
In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell : 
A limb was broken when they lifted him: 
And while he lay recovering there, his wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one: 
Another hand crept too across his trade 
Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell, 
Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, 
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. 
He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, 
To see his children leading evermore 
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, 
And her, he loved, .1 beggar: then he pray'd 
"Save them from this, whatever comes to me."* 
And wliile he pray'd, the master of that ship 
Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance. 
Came, for he knew the man and valued hiin, 
Reporting of his vessel China-bound, 
And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go? 
There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, 
Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place < 
And Enoch all at once assented to it, 
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So now that shadow of mischance appear'd 
No graver than as when some ittle cloud 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



221 



Cuts uflf tlie flery highway of the sun, 
And icilee a light in the offlug: yet the wife — 
When he was gone — the children — what to do? 
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans ; 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved her weli — 
How many a rough sea had he V'^atner'd in her i 
lie knew her, as a horseman knows his horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what she brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in trade 
With all that seamen needed or their wives — 
So might she keep the house while he was g(me. 
Should he not trade himself out yonder? go 
This voyage more than once? yea twice or thrice - 
As oft as needed — last, returning rich, 
Become the master of a, larger craft, 
With fuller prolits lead an easier life. 
Have all his pretty young ones educated. 
And pass his days in peace amoug his own. 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all ; 
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, 
Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. 
Forward she started with a happy cry, 
And laid the feeble infant in his arms ; 
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs, 
Appraised his weight, and fondled fat hei like. 
But had no heart to break his purposes 
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt 
Her linger, Annie fought against his will : 
Yet not with brawling opposition she. 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear. 
Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd 
(Sure that all evil would come out of it) 
Besought him, supplicnting, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
He not for his own self caring but her, 
Her and her children, let her plead in vain ; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. 

P'or Enoch parted with his old sea-friend. 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand 
To tit their little streetward sitting-room 
With shelf and corner for the goods and store.?. 
So all day long till Enoch's last at home, 
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, 
Asger and saw, while Annie seem A to hear 
Her own death-scaffoid rising, shrill'd and rang, 
Till this was ended, and his careful hand, — 
The space was narrow, — having order'd all 
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs 
Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; and he. 
Who needs would work for Annie to the last, 
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn. 

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell 
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears. 
Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to him. 
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 
Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery 
Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God. 
Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes 
Whatever came to him : and then he said, 
"Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear tire for me. 
For I '11 be back, my girl, before you know it." 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, "and he. 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one,— 
Nay — for I love him all the better for it — 
God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees, 
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, 
And make him merry when I come home again. 
Come Annie, come, cheer up before I go." 

Him running on thus hopefully she heard. 
And almost hoped herself; but when he turu'd 



The current of his talk to graver things 

In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 

On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 

Heai'd and not heard him ; as the village girl, 

Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring, 

Musing on him that used to till it for her. 

Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 

At length she spoke, "O Enoch, you are wise; 
And yet for ail your wisdom well know I 
That I shall look upon your face no more,"' 

"Well then," said Enoch, "I shall look on yours. 
Annie, the ship 1 sail in passes here 
(He named the day) ; get you a seaman's glass, 
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears." 

But when the last of those last moments came, 
"Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, 
Look to the babes, and till 1 "ome again. 
Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 
And fear no more dn- me ; or if you fear 
Cast all your cares on God ; that anchor hoids. 
Is He not yonder in those uttermost 
Parts of the morning ? if I flee to these 
Can I go from Him ? and the sea is His, 
The sea is His : He made it." 

Enoch rose. 
Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife. 
And kiss'd his wonder-strickeia little ones ; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness, 
When Annie would have raised him Enoch said, 
" Wake him not ; let him sleep ; how should the 

child 
Remember this ?" and kiss'd him in his cot. 
But Annie from her baby's forehead dipt 
A tiny curl, and gave it; this he kept 
Thro' all his future; but now hastily caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way. 

She, when the day that Enoch mention'd came, 
Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain : perhaps 
She could not flx the glass to suit her eye; 
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous ; 
She saw him not: and vvhile he stood on deck 
Waving, the moment and the vessel past. 

Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 
Sh' watch'd it, and departed weening An him; 
Then, tho' she mourn 'd his absence as his grave. 
Set her sad will no les.s to chime with his. 
But throve not in her trade, not being bred 
To barter, nor compensating the want 
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies. 
Nor asking overmuch and taking less. 
And still foreboding " What would Enoch say ?" 
For more than once, in days of difficulty 
And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 
Thau what she gave in buying what she sold: 
She fo'l'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus, 
Expectant of that news which never came, 
Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance. 
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 

Now the third child was sickly born and grew 
Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it 
With all a mother's care : nevertheless, 
Whether her business often call'd her from it. 
Or thro' the want of what it needed most, 
Or means to pay the voice who best could tell 
What most it needed — howsoe'er it was, 
After a lingering,— ere she was aware,— 
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly. 
The little innocent soul flitted away. 

In that same week when Annie buried It, 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



Philip's true heart, which hmiger'd for her peace 
(Since EuocU left he had uot look'd upon her), 
Smote him, as having liept aloof so long. 
"Surely," said Philip, "I may see her ui>w, 
May be some little comfort ;" therefore went. 
Past thro' the solitary room in front. 
Paused for a moment at an inner door, 
Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, 
Euter'd ; but Annie, seated with her grief, 
Fresh from the burial of her little one, 
Cared uot to look on any human face. 
But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falteringly, 
-'Annie, I came to ask a favor of you." 

He spoke ; the passion in her nioan'd reply, 
"Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am !" half abash'd him , yet uuask'd, 
His bashfulness and tenderness at war, 
He set himself beside her, saying to her: 

" I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, 
Enoch, your husband : I have ever said 
You chose the best among us — a strong man ■ 
For where he flxt his heart he set his hand 
To do the thing lie will'd, and bore it thro'. 
And wherefore did he go this weary way. 
And leave you lonely ? uot to see the world— 
For pleasure ?— nay, but for 'he wherewithal 
To give his babes a better oringing-up 
Thau his had been, or yoi.rs • that was his wish. 
And if he come agaiu, vext will he be 
To find the precious moniiug hours were lost. 
And it would vex him even in his grave, 
If he could know his babes were running wild 
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now— 
Have vre not known each other all our lives? 
] do beseech you by the love you bear 
Him and his children not to say me nay — 
For, if you will, when Enoch comes again 
Why then he shall repay me — if you will, 
Annie — for 1 am rich aud well-to-do. 
Now let me put the boy and girl to school ' 
This is the favor that I came to ask." 

Then Annie with her brows against the wall 
Answer'd, "I cannot look you in the face; 
I seem so foolish and so broken down ; 
When you came in my sorrow broke me down ; 
And now I think your kindness breaks me down ; 
But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me; 
He will repay you : money can be repaid ; 
Not kindness such as yours." 

And Philip ask'd 
" Then you will let me, Annie ?" 

There she turn'd. 
She rose, aud fixt her swimming eyes upon him, 
Aud dwelt a moment on his kiudly face, 
Then calling down a blessing on his head 
Caught at his baud aud wrung it passionately, 
And past into the little garth beyond. 
So lifted up iu spirit he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school, 
Aud bought them needful books, and every w;ay, 
Like one who does his dnty by his own. 
Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's sake. 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port. 
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish, 
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent 
Gifts by the children, gardcu-herbs and fruit. 
The late and early roses from his wall. 
Or conies from the down, and now and then, 
With some pretext of fineness iu the meal 
To save the offence of charitable, flour 
From his tall mill that whistled ou the waste. 



But Philip did uot fathom Annie's mind : 
Scarce could the woman when he came upon her, 
Out of full heart aud boundless gratitude 
Light on a broken word to thank him with. 
But Philip was her children's all-in-all ; 
From distant corners of the street they rau 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily; 
Lords of his house and of his mill were they; 
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him 
And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gaiu'd 
As Enoch lost ; for Euoch seem'd to them 
LTncertaiu as a vision or a dream, 
Faint as a figure seen iu early dawn 
Down at the far end of an avenue. 
Going we know uot where ; and so ten years, 
Since Enoch left his hearth aud native land, 
Fled forward, aud no uews of Enoch came. 

It chanced one eveuing Annie's children long'd 
To go with others, nutting to the wood. 
And Annie would go with thepi ; then they begg'a 
For Father Philip (as they him call'd) too : 
Him, like the working-bee in blossom-dust, 
Blauch'd with his mill, they found ; aud saying to 

him, 
" Come with us. Father Philip," he denied ; 
But when '^he children pluck'd at him to go. 
He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish, 
For was uot Auuie with them ? and they went. 

But after scaling half the weary down. 
Just where the prone edge of the wood began 
To feather toward the hollow, all her force 
Fail'd her ; and sighing " Let me rest " she said ■ 
So Philip rested with her well-content; 
While all the younger ones with jubilant cries 
Broke from their elders, and tumultuousiy 
Down thro' the whitening hazels made a plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, aud bent or broki 
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away 
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other 
Aud caliiug, here and there, about the wood. 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour 
Here iu this wood, when like a wounded life 
He crept iuto the shadow : at last he said, 
Lifting his honest forehead, "Listen, Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in the Avood." 
" Tired, Annie ?" for she did uot speak a word. 
" Tired ?'' but her face had fall'n upon her hands ; 
At which, as with a kind of anger in him, 
"The ship was lost," he said, "the ship was lost! 
No more of that ! why should you kill yourself 
Aud make them orphans quite?" And Annie said, 
" I thought not of it : but — I know uot why — 
Their voices make me feel so solitary." 

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. 
"Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, 
And it has been upon my mind so loug. 
That tho' I know uot when it first came there, 
1 know that it will out at last. O Annie, 
It is beyond all hope, against all chance, 
That he who left you ten long years ago 
Should still be living; well then — let me speak; 
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help: 
I cannot help you as I wish to do 
Unless — they say that women are so quick — 
Perhaps you know what I would have you know • 
I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove 
A father to your children: I do think 
They love me as a father : I am sure 
That I love them as if they were mine owu : 
And I believe, if you were fast my wife, 
That after all these sad uncertain years. 
We might be still as happy as God grants 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



To any of His creatui'es. Think upon it: 
For I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 
No burthen, save my care for you and yours ; 
And we have known each other all our lives, 
And I have loved you longer than you know." 

Then answer'd Annie ; tenderly she spoke : 
"You have been as God's good angel in our house. 
God bless you for it, God reward you for it, 
Philip, with something happier than myself. 
Can one love twice ? can you be ever loved 
As Enoch was ? wliat is it that you ask ?" 
"I am content," he auswer'd, "to be loved 
A little after Enoch." "0,"she cried, 
Scared as it were, "dear Philip, wait a while: 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not come — 
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long: 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year: 

wait a little !" Philip sadly said, 
"Annie, as I have waited all my life 

1 well may wait a little." "Nay," she cried, 

"I ara bound: you have ray promise — in a year: 
Will you not bide your year as I bide mine ?" 
And Philip answered, "I wUI bide my year." 

ilere both were mute, till Philip glancing up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day 
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead; 
Then fearing night and chill for Annie rose. 
And sent his voice beneath him thro" the wood. 
Up came the children laden with their spoil ; 
Then all descended to the port, and there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave his hand. 
Saying gently, "Annie, when I spoke to you. 
That was your hour of weakness. 1 was wrong. 
I am always bound to yon, but you are free." 
Then Annie weeping answer'd, "I ara bound." 

She spoke ; and in one moment as it were, 
While yet she went about her household ways, 
Ev'n as she dwelt upon his latest words. 
That he had loved her longer than she knew, 
That autumn into autumn llash'd again. 
And there he stood once more before her face, 
Claiming her promise. "Is it a year?" she ask'd. 
•'Yes, if the nuts," he said, "be ripe again: 
Corae out and see." But she — she put him off— 
So much to look to — such a change — a month — 
Give her a mouth — she knew that she was bound— 
A month — no more. Then Philip with his eyes 
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice 
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, 
"Take your own time, Annie, take your own time." 
And Annie could have wept for pity of him ; 
And yet she held him on delayingly 
U'ith many a scarce-believable excuse, 
Trying his truth and his loug-suffurance, 
Till half-another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port, 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost, 
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her; 
Sxime that she but held off to draw him on ; 
And others laugh'd at her and Philip too. 
As simple folk that knew not their own minds; 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughinirly 
Wt)uld hint at worse in either. Iler own son 
Was sUent, tho' he often look'd his wish ; 
But evermore the daughter prest upon her 
To wed the man so dear to all of them 
And lift the household out of poverty; 
And Philip's rosy face contracting grew 
Careworn and wau ; and all these things fell on her 
Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly 
Pray'd for a sign, " my Enoch, is he gone ?" 
15 



Then compass'd round by the blind wall of night 

Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart, 

Started from bed, and struck herself a light, 

Then desperately seized the holy Book, 

Suddenly set it wide to find a sign. 

Suddenly put her finger ou the text, 

"Under a palratrec." That was nothing to her: 

No meaning there: she closed the book and slept: 

When lo ! her Enoch sitting on a height. 

Under a palmtree, over him the Sun : 

"He is gone," she thought, "he is happy, he is sing 

iug 
Ilosanua in the highest: yonder shines 
The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms 
Whereof the happy peoi)le strowing cried 
'Hosanna in the highest 1'" Here she woke, 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him, 
"There is no reason why we should not wed." 
"Tiien for God's sake," he answer'd, "both uur 

sakes, 
So you will wed me, let it be at once." 

So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, 
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path, 
She knew not whence ; a whisper on her ear. 
She knew not what ; nor loved she to be left 
Alone at home, nor veiitured out alone. 
What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often 
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, 
Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew: 
Such doubts and fears were common to her state, 
Being with child: but when her child was born. 
Then her new child was as herself reuew'd, 
Then the new mother came about her heart, 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all. 
And that mysterious instinct wholly died. 

And where was Enoch ? Prosperously sail'd 
The ship "Good Fortune," tho' at setting forth 
The Biscay, rouglily ridging eastward, shook 
And almost ovenvhelm'd her, yet nnvext 
She slipt across the summer of the world, 
Then after a long tumble about the Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and ftxir. 
She passing thro' the summer world again, 
The breath of Heaven came continually 
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, 
Till silent iu her oriental haven. 

There Enoch traded for himself, and bought 
Quaint monsters fur the market of those times, 
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes. 

Less lucky her home-voyage : at first indeed 
Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day. 
Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure-head 
Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bowa: 
Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable, 
Then baffling, a l<mg course of them ; and last 
Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens 
Till hard upon the cry of " breakers" came 
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all 
But Enoch and two others. Half the night, 
Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spars, 
These drifted, stranding ou an isle at morn 
Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea. 

No want was there of human sustenance, 
Soft fruitage, mighty luits and nourishing roots; 
Nor save for pity was it hard to take 
The helpless life so wild that it was tame. 
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge 
They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a htJl, 
Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, 
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness. 
Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content- 



224: 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



For one, the youugest, hardly more than boj', 
Hurt in that night of suddeu ruin and wrcclc, 
Lay lingering out a three-years' death-in-lifc. 
They could not leave him. After he was gone, 
The two remaining found a fallen stem ; 
And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, 
Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell 
Sun-striclven, and that other lived alone. 
lu those two deaths he read God's warning " wait." 

The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns 
And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, 
The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes, 
The lightning lUish of insect and of bird. 
The lustre of the long convolvuluses 
That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran 
Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows 
-\ud glories of the broad belt of the world. 
All these he saw ; but what he fain had seen 
He could not see, the kindly human face, 
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard 
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl. 
The league-long roller thundering ou the reef. 
The moving whisper of huge trees that brauch'd 
And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep 
Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, 
As down the shore he ranged, or all day long 
Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 
A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail: 
No sail from day to day, but every day 
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 
Among the palms and ferns and precipices; 
The blaze upon the w-aters to the east ; 
The blaze upon his island overhead ; 
The blaze upon the waters to the west; 
Then the great stars that globed themselves iu 

Heaven, 
The hoUower-bellowing ocean, and again 
The scarlet shafts of sunrise— but no sail. 

There, often as he watch 'd or seem'd to watch, 
So still, the golden lizard ou him paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms moved 
Before him haunting him, or he himself 
Moved haunting people, things and places, known 
Far in a darker isle beyond the line ; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house. 
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, 
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill 
November dawn? and dew3'-glooming downs. 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying loaves. 
And the low moan of Icaden-coloi-'d seas. 

Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, 
Tho' faintly, merrily— far and far away— 
He heard the pealing of his parish bells; 
Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started up 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle 
Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart 
Spoken with That, which being everywhere 
Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone, 
Surely the mau had died of solitude. 

Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went 
Year after year. His nopes to see his own, 
And pace the sacred old familiar lields. 
Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship 
(She wanted water) blown by baiHing winds 
Like the Good Fortune, from her destined c(nirse, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay ; 
For since the mate had seen at early dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle 
The silent water slipping from the hills, 
They sent a crew that landing burst away 
In searcli of stroam or Ibuut, and till d the shores 



With clamor. Downward from his mountain gorj^c 

Stept the long-haired long-bearded solitary, 

Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad. 

Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it seem'd. 

With inarticulate rage, and making signs 

They knew not what : and yet he led the way 

To where the rivulets of sweet water ran ; 

And ever as he mingled with the crew, 

And heard them talking, his loug-bounden tongue 

Was loosen'd, till he made them understand ; 

Whom, when their casks were flll'd they tuok aboard, 

And there the tale he ntter'd brokenly. 

Scarce credited at first but more and more, 

Amazed and melted all who li^tcn'd to it : 

And clothes they gave him and free passage home 

But oft he work'd among the rest and shook 

His isolation from him. None of these 

Came from his county, or could answer him, 

If question'd, aught of what he cared to know. 

And dull the voyage was with long delays, 

The vessel scarce sea-worthy ; but evermore 

His fancy fled before the lazy wind 

Returning, till beneath a clouded moon 

He like a lover down thro' all his blood 

Drew iu the dewy meadowy morning-breath 

Of England, blown across her ghostly wall: 

And that same morning officers and men 

Levied a kindly tax upon themselves, 

Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it: 

Then moving up the coast they landed him, 

Ev'n in that harbor whence he sail'd before. 

There Enoch spoke no word to any one. 
But homeward, — home, — what home ? had he a honw 1 
His home he walk'd. Bright was that afternoon, 
Sunny but chill; till drawn thro' either chasm. 
Where either haven open'd on the deeps, 
Roll'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world iu gray 
Cut ofl" the length of highway on before, 
And left but narrow breadth to left and right 
Of wither'd holt or tilth or pasturage. 
Ou the nigh-naked tree the Robin piped 
Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down 
Tliicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom ; 
Last, as it seem'd, a great mist-blotted light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the place. 

Then down the long street having slowly stolen, 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity, 
Ilis eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the home 
Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes 
In those far-oft" seven happy j'ears were born ; 
Bnt finding neither light nor murmur there 
(A bill of sale gleam'd thro' the drizzle) crept 
Still dow-nward thinking " dead or dead to me I" 

Down to the pool and narrow wharf he v.eiit, 
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew, 
A front of timber-crost antiquity. 
So projit, worm-eaten, ruinously old. 
lie thought it must have gone; but he was gons 
Who kept it: and his widow, Miriam Lane, 
With daily-dwindling proiits held the house ; 
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now 
Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men. 
There Enoch rested silent many days. 

But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, 
Nm- let him be, but often breaking in. 
Told him, with other annals of the ]>ort, 
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so how'd, 
So broken— all the story of his house. 
Ills baby's death, her growing poverty, 
How Philip put her little ones to school. 
And kept them in it, his long wooing her. 
Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth 
Of Philip's child: and o'er his countenanca 



ENOCH AKDEN. 



'>fo ehadow past, uor motion ; any one, 
Regarding, well had deem'd he I'elt the tale 
Less than the teller: only when she closed, 
■' Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost," 
He, shaking his gray head pathetically. 
Repeated mnttering " Cast away and lost ;" 
Again in deeper inward whispers " Lost !" 

But Enoch yearn'd to see her face again ; 
"If I might look on her sweet face again 
And know that she is happy." So the thought 
Haunted and harass'd him, and drove him foiih 
At evening when the dull November day 
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
There he sat down gazing on all below : 
There did a thousand memories roll upon him, 
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light. 
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street. 
The latest house to landward; but behind. 
With one small gate that opeu'd on the waste, 
Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd: 
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it : 
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence 
That which he better might have shunn'd, if giiefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 

For cups and silver on the burnish "d board 
Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth ; 
And ou the right hand of the hearth he saw 
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times. 
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees ; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
Fair-hair"d and tall, and from her lifted hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms, 
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd: 
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
The mother glancing often toward her babe, 
But turning now and then to speak with him, 
Her son, who stood beside her tall ar.d strong. 
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. 

Now when the dead man come to life beheld 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, 
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, 
And his own children tall and beautiful. 
And him, that other, reigning in his place. 
Lord of his rights and of his children's love,— 
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all, 
Because things seen are mightier than things heard, 
Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry. 
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, 
WouM shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a thief. 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, 
And feeling all along the garden-wall. 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, 
Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed, 
As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, 
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but that his 
knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd. 



" Too hard to bear ! why did they take me thence ? 

God Almight)', blessed Saviour, Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle. 
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 

A little longer 1 aid me, give me strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her peace. 
My children too ! must I not speak to these ? 
They know me not. I should betray myself. 
Never: no father's kiss for me, — the girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my son." 

There speech and thought and nature fail'd a little, 
And he lay tranced": but when he rose and paced 
Back toward his solitary home again. 
All down the long and narrow street he went 
Beating it in upon his weary brain. 
As tho' it were the burthen of a song, 
"Not to tell her, never to let her know." 

He was not all unhappy. His resolve 
Upbore him, and Arm faith, and evermore 
Praj'er from a living source within the will, 
And beating up thro' all the bitter world. 
Like fountains of sweet water in the sea. 
Kept him a living soul. "This miller's wife," 
He said to Miriam, "that you told me of, 
Has she no fear that her first husband lives?" 
"Ay, ay, poor soul," said Miriam, "fear enow! 
If you could tell her you had seen him dead. 
Why, that would be her comfort :" and he thought 
"After the Lord has call'd me she shall know. 

1 wait His time," and Enoch set himself, 
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. 
Almost to all things could he turn his hand. 
Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 
To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help'd 
At lading and unlading the tall barks. 

That brought the stinted commerce of those days 
Thus earn'd a scanty living for himself: 
Yet since he did but labor for himself. 
Work without hope, there was not life in it 
Whereby the man could live ; and as the year 
Roll'd itself round again to meet the day 
When Enoch had return'd, a languor came 
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 
Weakening the man, till he could do no more. 
But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed 
And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. 
For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck 
See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall 
The boat that bears the hope of life approach 
To save the life despair'd of, than he saw 
Death dawning ou him, and the close of all. 

For thro' that dawning gleam'd a kindlier hope 
On Enoch thinking, "After I am gone, 
Then may she learn I loved her to the last." 
He call'd aloud for Miriam Lane and said, 
"Woman, I have a secret — only swear, 
i Before I tell you — swear upon the book 
j Not to reveal it, till you see me dead." 
i " Dead," clamor'd the good woman, "hear him talk 
I I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round." 
1 "Swear," added Enoch sternly, "on the book." 
j And ou the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore. 
j Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her, 
I "Did you know Enoch Arden of this town?" 
"Know him?" she said, "I knew him far away. 
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street ; 
Held his head high, and cared for no man, he." 
Slowly and sadly Enoch answer'd her; 
" His head is low, and no mau cares for him. 
I think I have not three days more to live; 
I am the man." At which the woman gave 
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry. 
"You Arden, you ! nay, — sure he was a foot 
Higher than you be." Enoch said again, 



226 



ENOCH ARDEN. 



"My God has bow'd me down to what I am; 
My grief aud solitude have broken me ; 
Nevertheless, know you that I am he 
Who married — but that name has twice been 

changed^ 
I married her who married Philip Eay. 
Sit, listen." Then he told her of his voyage, 
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, 
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve, 
And how he kept it. As the woman heard, 
Fast flow'd the current of her easy tears, 
While in her heart she yearn'd incessantly 
To rush abroad all round the little haven. 
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes ; 
But awed and promise-bounden she forbore. 
Saying only, " See your bairns before you go ! 
Eh, let me fetch 'em, Ardeu," and arose 
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung 
A moment on her words, but then replied: 

"Woman, disturb me not now at the last, 
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 
Sit down again; mark me and understand, 
While I have power to speak. I charge you now, 
When you shall see her, tell her that I died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her; 
Save for the bar between us, loving her 
As when she laid her head beside my own. 
And tell my daughter Annie, whom 1 saw 
So like her mother, that my latest breath 
Was spent in blessing her and praying for her. 
And tell my son that I died blessing him. 
And say to Philip that I blest him too; 



He never meant us anything but good. 
But if my children care to see me dead, 
Who hardly knew me living, let them come, 
I am their father ; but she must not come. 
For my dead face would vex her after-life. 
And now there is but one of all my blood, 
Who will embrace me in the world-to-be : 
This hair is his: she cut it ofl" and gave it, 
And I have borne it with me all these years. 
And thought to bear it with me to my grave ; 
But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him, 
My babe in bliss : wherefore when I am gone. 
Take, give her this, for it may comfort her; 
It will moreover be a token to her 
That 1 am he." 

lie ceased ; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising all. 
That once again he roU'd his eyes upon her 
Repeating all he wish'd, and once again 
She promised. 

Then the third night after this. 
While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale, 
And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals, 
There came so loud a calling of the sea, 
That all the houses in the haven rang. 
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad 
Crying with a loud voice "A sail! a sail! 
I am saved ;' and so fell back and spoke no more 

So past the strong heroic soul away. 
And when they buried him the little port 
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 




AYLMER'S FIELD. 



227 



ADDITIONAL POEMS 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 
1793. 
DcBT are our frames; aud, gilded dust, our pride 
Looks only for a moment whole and sound; 
Like that long-buried body of the king, 
Found lying with his urns and ornaments, 
AMiich at a touch of light, an air of heaven, 
Slipt into ashes and was found no more. 

Here is a story which in rougher shape 
Came from a grizzled cripple, whom I saw 
Sunning himself in a waste field alone- 
Old, and a mine of memories— who had served, 
Long since, a bj'gone Rector of the place, 
And been himself a part of what he told. 

SiK Aylmer Aylmeti, that almighty man, 
The county God— in whose capacious hall. 
Hung with a hundred shields, the family tree 
Sprang from the midriff of a prostrate king— 
Whose blazing wyveru weathercock'd the spire. 
Stood from his walls and wing'd his entry-gates 
And swang besides on many a windy sign— 
Whose eyes from under a pyramidal head 
Saw from his windows nothing save his own— 
What lovelier of his own had he than her. 
His only child, his Edith, whom he loved 
As heiress and not heir regretfnlly ? 
But "he that marries her marries her name" 
This fiat somewhat soothed himself and wife. 
His wife a fiuled beauty of the Baths, 
Insipid as the queen upon a card ; 
Her all of thought and bearing hardly more 
Than his own shadow in a sickly sun. 

A laud of hops and poppy-mingled corn, 
Little about it stirring save a brook! 
A sleepy land where under the same wheel 
The same old rut would deepen year by year; 
Wliere almost all the village had one name; 
Where Aylmer followed Aylmer at the Hall 
And Averill Averill at the Rectory 
Thrice over: so that Rectory and Hall, 
Bound in an immemorial intimac}'. 
Were open to each, other; tho' to dream 
That Love could bind them closer well had made 
The hoar hair of the Baronet bristle up 
With horror, worse than had he heard his priest 
Preach an inverted scripture, sons of men 
Daughters of God ; so sleepy was the laud. 

And might not Averill, had he will'd it so, 
Somewhere beneath his own low range of roofs. 
Have also set his many-shielded tree ? 
There was an Aylmer-Averill marriage once. 
When the red rose was redder than itself, 
And York's white rose as red as Lancaster's, 
With wounded peace which each had prick'd to 

death. 
"Not proven," Averill said, or laughingly, 
"Some other race of Averills"— prov'n or no. 
What cared he ? what, if other or the same ? 
He lean'd not on his fathers but himself. 
But Leolin, his brother, living oft 



With Averill, and a year or two beforo 
Call'd to the bar, but ever call'd away 
By one low voice to one dear neighborhood. 
Would often, in his walks with Edith, claim 
A distant kinship to the gracious blood 
That shook the heart of Edith hearing him. 

Sanguine he was : a but less vivid hue 
Than of that Islet in the chestnut-bloom 
Flamed in his cheek ; and eager eyes, that still 
Took joyful note of all things joyful, beam'd 
Beneath a mauelike mass of rolling gold. 
Their best and brightest, when they dwelt on hera 
Edith, w'hose pensive beauty, perfect else. 
But subject to the season or the mood. 
Shone like a mystic star between the less 
And greater glory varying to and fro. 
We know not wherefore ; bounteously made, 
And }'et so finely, that a troublous touch 
Thinu'd, or would seem to thin her in a day, 
A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. 
And these had been together from the first. 
Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, hers: 
So much the boy foreran ; but Avhen his date 
Doubled her own, for want of playmates, he 
(Since Averill was a decade and a half 
His elder, and their parents ituderground) 
Had tost his ball and flown his kite, and roll'd 
His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her dipt 
Against the rush of the air in the prone swing. 
Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, arranged 
Her garden, sow'd her name and kept it greea 
In living letters, told her fairy-tales, 
Show'd her the fairy footings on the grass, 
The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms, 
The petty marestail forest, fairy pines, 
Or from the tiny pitted target blev/ 
What look'd a flight of fairy arrows aim'd 
All at one mark, all hitting : make-believes 
For Edith aud himself: or else he forged. 
But that was later, boyish histories 
Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, wreck, 
Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and true love 
Crown' d after trial; sketches rude and faint, 
But where a passion yet unborn perhaps 
Lay hidden as tlie music of the moon 
Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale. 
And thus together, save for college-times 
Or Temple-eaten terms, a coui)le, fair 
As ever painter painted, poet sang. 
Or Heav'n in lavish bounty moulded, grew. 
And more and more, the maiden woman-grown. 
He wasted hours with Averill ; there, when first 
The tented winter-field was broken up 
Into that phalanx of the summer spears 
That soon should wear the garland ; there again 
When burr and bine were galher'd ; lastly there 
At Christmas; ever welcome at the Hall, 
On whose dull sameness his full tide of youth 
Broke with a phosphorescence cheering even 
My lady ; and the Baronet yet had laid 
No bar between them: dull aud self-involved, 
Tall and erect, but bending from his height 
With half-allowing smiles for ail the world, 
And mighty courteous in the main— his pride 



228 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



Lay deeper thiiu to wear it as his riug — 

He, lilie an Aylmer iu his Ayhnerism, 

Would care uo more lor Leoliu's walkiug with her 

Than for his old Newfoundland's, when they ran 

To loose him at the stables; for he rose 

Twofooted at the limit of his chain, 

Roaring to make a third: and how should Love, 

Whom the cross-lightuings of four chancu-met eyes 

Flash into liery life from nothing, follow 

Such dear familiarities of dawn ? 

Seldom, hut when he does, Master of all. 

So these young hearts not knowing that they loved, 
Kot she at least, nor conscious of a bar 
Between them, nor by plight or broken riug 
Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, 
Wander'd at will, but oft accompanied 
By Averill: his, a brother's iove, that hung 
With wings of brooding shelter o'er her peace. 
Might have been other, save for Leolin's— 
Who knows? but so they wander'd, hour by hour 
Gather'd the blossom that rebloom'd, and drank 
The magic cup that fiU'd itself anew. 

A whisper half reveal'd her to herself. 
For out beyond her lodges, whei-e the brook 
Vocal, with here and there a silence, ran 
By sallowy rims, arose the laborers' homes, 
A frequent haunt of Edith, on low knolls 
That dimpling died into each other, hnts 
At random scatter'd, each a nest in bloom. 
Her art, her hand, her counsel all had wrouuht 
About them: here was one that, sunmier-blancird, 
Was parcel-bearded with the traveller's-joy 
In Autumn, parcel ivj'-ciad ; and here 
The warm-blue breathings of a hidden hearth 
Broke from a bower of vine and honeysuckle : 
One look'd all rosetree, and another wore 
A close-set robe of jasmine sown with stars: 
This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers 
About it; this a milky-way on earth, 
Like visions in the Northern dreamer's heavens, 
A lily-avenue climbing to the doors; 
One, almost to the martin-haunted caves 
A summer burial deep in hollyhocks; 
Each, its own charm; and Edith's everywhere; 
And Edith ever visitant with him. 
He but less loved than Edith, of her poor : 
For she — so lowly-lovely and so loving, 
Queenly responsive when the loyal hand 
Rose from the clay it work'd in as she past, 
Not sowing hedgerow texts and passing by, 
Nor dealing goodly counsel from a height 
That makes the lowest hate it, but a voice 
Of comfort and an open hand of help, 
A splendid presence flattering the i)oin- roofs 
Revered as theirs, but kindlier than themselves 
To ailing wife or wailing infancy 
Or old bedridden palsy, — was adored ; 
He, loved for her and for himself A grasp 
Having the warmth and muscle of the heart, 
A childly way with children, and a laugh 
Ringing like proven golden coinage trne. 
Were uo false passport to that easy realm, 
Where once with Leolin at her side the girl, 
Nursing a child, and turning to the warmth 
The tender- pink tive-bcadcd baby-soles, 
Heard the good mother softly whisper "Bless, 
God bkss 'em ; marriages are made in Heaven." 

A flash of semi-jealousy clear'd it to her. 
My Lady's Indian kinsman unannounced 
With half a score of swarthy faces came. 
His own, tho' keen and bold and soldierlj-, 
Sear' 1 by the close ecliptic, was not fair; 
Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled iho. hour, 
Tho' seeming boastful : so when first he dash'd 
Into the chronicle of a deedful day. 



Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile 

Of patron "Good! my lady's kinsman! good!" 

My lady with her tingers interlock'd. 

And rotatory thumbs on silken knees, 

Call'd all her vital spirits into each ear 

To listen : unawares they flitted oft". 

Busying themselves about the flowerage 

That stood from out a stiff brocade in which, 

The meteor of a splendid season, she. 

Once with this kinsman, ah so long ago, 

Stept thro' the stately minuet of those days : 

But Edith's eager fancy hurried with him 

Snatch'd thro' the perilous passes of his lifei 

Till Leolin ever watchful of her eye 

Hated him with a momentary hate. 

VV'ife-huutiug, as the rnmor ran, was he: 

I know not, for he spoke not, only shower'd 

His oriental gifts on every one 

And most on Edith : like a storm he came, 

And shook the house, and like a storm he went. 

Among the gifts he left her (possibly 
He flow'd and ebb'd uncertain, to return 
When others had been tested) there was one, 
A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels on it 
Sprinkled about in gold that branch'd itself 
Fine as ice-ferns on January panes 
Made by a breath. I know not whence at first, 
Nor of what race, the work ; but as he told 
The story, storming a hill-fort of thieves 
He got it; for their captain after fight, 
His comrades having fought their last below, 
Was climbing up the valley; at whom he shot: 
Down from the beetling crag to which he clung 
Tumbled the tawny rascal at his feet. 
This dagger with him, which when now admired 
By Edith whom his pleasure was to please. 
At once the costly Sahib yielded to her. 

And Leolin, coming after he was gone, 
Tost over all her presents petulantly: 
And when she show'd the wealthy scabbard, saying 
" Look what a lovely piece of workmanship !" 
Slight was his answer "Well— I care not for it:" 
Then playing with the blade he prick'd his hand, 
"A gracious gift to give a lady, this!" 
"But would it be more gracious," ask'd the girl, 
"Were I to give this gift of his to one 
That is uo lady ?" "Gracious? No," said he. 
"Me? — but I cared not for it. O pardon me, 
I seem to be ungraciousness itself" 
"Take it," she added sweetly, "tho' his gift; 
For I am more ungracious ev'u than you, 
I care not for it either;" and he said 
"Why then I love it:" but Sir Aylmer past. 
And neither loved uor liked the thing he heard. 

The next day came a neighbor. Bhies and reds 
They talk'd of: blues were sure of it, he thought! 
Then of the latest fox— where started— kill'd 
In such a bottom: "Peter had the brush. 
My Peter, first:" and did Sir Aylmer know 
That great pock-pitten fellow had been caught? 
Then made his pleasure echo, hand to hand, 
And rolling as it were the substance of it 
Between his palms a moment up and down — 
"The birds were warm, the birds were warm upon 

him ; 
W^e have him now:" and had Sir Aylmer heard — 
Nay, but he must— the land was ringing of it — 
This bhtoksmith-bordcr marriage — one they knew — 
Raw from the nursery— who could trust a child? 
That cursed France with her egalities ! 
And did Sir Aylmer (deferentially 
With nearing chair and lower'd acceni) think — 
For people talk'd — that it was wholly wise 
To let that handsome fellow Averill walk 
So freely with hiB daughter? people talk'd^ 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



221 



f he boy might get a notion into him ; 

The girl might he entangled ere she knew. 

Sir Aylmer slowly stiflening spoke: 

"The girl and boy, Sir, know their differences !" 

"Good," said his friend, "but watch!" and he 

"enough, 
More than enough. Sir ! I can guard my own." 
They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer watch'd. 

Pale, for on her the thunders of the house 
Had fallen first, was Edith that same night: 
Pale as the Jephtha's daughter, a rough piece 
Of early rigid color, under which 
Withdrawing by the counter door to that 
Which Leolin open'd, she cast back upon him 
A piteous glance, and vauish'd. He, as one 
Caught in a burst of unexpected storm, 
And pelted with outrageous epithets, 
Turning beheld the Powers of the House 
On either side the hearth, indignant ; her, 
Cooling her false cheek with a feather-fan, 
Him glaring, by his own stali; devil spurr'd. 
And, like a beast hard-ridden, breathing hard. 
"Ungenerous, dishonorable, base. 
Presumptuous ! trusted as he was with her, 
The sole succeeder to their wealth, their lands, 
Tlie last remaining pillar of their house. 
The one transmitter of their ancient name, 
Theirchild." "Ourchild!" " Our heiress '." "Ours!" 

for still, 
Like echoes from beyond a hollow, came 
Her sicklier iteration. Last he said 
"Boy, mark me ! for your fortunes are to make. 
I swear you shall not make them out of mine. 
Now inasmuch as you have practised on her, 
Perplext her, made her half forget herself, 
Swerve from her duty to herself and us — 
Things in an Aylmer deem'd impossible, 
Far as we track ourselves — I say that this, — 
Else I withdraw favor and countenance 
From you and yours forever — shall you do. 
Sir, when you see her — but you shall not see her — 
No, you shall write, and not to her, but me: 
\nd you shall say that having spoken with me, 
\nd after look'd into yourself, you find 
That you meant nothing— as indeed you know 
That ycm meant nothing. Such a match as this ! 
Impossible, prodigious !" These w'ere words, 
As meted by his measure of himself, 
Arguing boundless forbearance: after which, 
And Leolin's horror-stricken answer, "I 
So foul a traitor to myself and her, 
Never, O never," for about as long 
As the wind-hover hangs in balance, paused 
Sir Aylmer reddening from the storm within, 
Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and crying 
"Boy, should I find you by my doors again 
My men shall lash you from them like a dog: 
Hence 1" witli a sudden execration drove 
The footstool from before him, and arose ; 
So, stammering " scoundrel " out of teeth that ground 
As in a dreadful dream, while Leolin still 
Retreated half-aghast, the fierce old man 
Follow'd, and under his own lintei stood 
Storming with lifted hands, a hoary face 
Meet for the reverence of the hearth, hut now, 
Beneath a pale and unimpassion'd moon, 
Vext with unworthy madness, and deform'd. 

Slowly and conscious of the rageful eye 
That watch'd him, till he heard the i)oiKler(ms door 
Close, crashing with long echoes thro' the land, 
^Vent Leolin ; then, his passions all in flood 
And masters ot his motion, furiously 
Down thro' the bright lawns to his brother's ran. 
And foam'd away his heart at Averill's ear: 
Whom Averill solaced as he might, amazed : 
The man was his. had been his father's friend- 



He must have seen, himself had seen it long ; 

He must have known, himself had known: besides, 

He never yet had set his daughter forth 

Here in the woman-markets of the west, 

Where our Caucasians let themselves be sold. 

Some one, he thouglit, had slander'd Leolin t(i him. 

" Brother, for I have loved you more as scm 

Than brother, let mo toll you : I myself— 

What is their pretty saying? jilted, is it? 

Jilted I was : I say it for your peace. 

Pain'd, and, as bearing in myself the shame 

The woman should have borne, humiliated, 

I lived for years a stunted sunless life; 

Till after our good parents past away 

Watching your growth, I seem'd again to grow. 

Leolin, I almost sin in envying you : 

The very whitest lamb in all my fold 

Loves you: I know her: the worst thought she has 

Is whiter even than her pretty hand: 

She must prove true : for, brother, where two fight 

The strongest wins, and truth and love are strength, 

And you are happy: let her parents be." 

But Leolin cried out the more upon them — 
Insoleut, brainless, heartless 1 heirees, wealth. 
Their wealth, their heiress ' wealth enough was theirs 
For twenty matches. Were he lord of this, • 
Why twenty boys and girls should marry on it« 
And forty blest ones bless him, and himself 
Be wealthy still, ay wealthier. He believed 
This filthy marriage-hindering Mammon made 
The harlot of the cities; nature crost 
Was mother of the foul adulteries 
That saturate soui with bod}'. Name, too ! name. 
Their ancient name ! they miijht be proud ; its worth 
Was being Edith's. Ah how pale she had look'd 
Darling, to-night! they must have rated her 
Beyond all tolerance. These old pheasant-lords, 
These partridge-breeders of a thousand years, 
Who had mildew'd in their thousands, doing nothirg 
Since Egbert — why, the greater their disgrace ! 
Fall back upon a name ! rest, rot in that i 
Not keep it noble, make it nobler? fools, 
With such a vantage-ground for nobleness . 
He had known a man, a quintessence of man, 
The life of all — who madly loved — and he. 
Thwarted by one of those old father-fools, 
Had rioted his life out, and made an end. 
He would not do it I her sweet race and faith 
Held him from that : bnt he had powers, he knew it 
Back would he to his studies, make a name. 
Name, fortune too : the world should ring of him 
To shame these mouldy Aylmers in their graves' 
Chancellor, or what is greatest would he be — 
" O brother, I am grieved to learn your griefs- 
Give me my fling, and let me say my ray." 

At which, like one that sees his own excess. 
And easily forgives it as his own, 
He laugh'd; and then was mute: but presently 
Wept like a storm: and honest Averill seeing 
How low his brother's mood had fallen, fetch'd 
His richest beeswing from a binu reserved 
For banquets, praised the waning red, and told 
The vintage— when this Aylmer came of age — 
Then drank and past it: till at length the two. 
Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, agreed 
That much allowance must be made for men 
After an angry dream this kindlier glow 
Faded with morning, but his purpose held. 

Yet once by night again the lovers met, 
A perilous meeting under the tall pines 
That darken'd all the northward of her Hall. 
Him, to her meek and modest bosom prest 
In agony, she promised that no force. 
Persuasion, no, nor death could alter her; 
He, passionately hopefuller, would ro. 



230 



AYLMERS FIELD. 



Labor for his own Edith, and return 

lu such a sunlight of prosperity 

He should not be rejected. " Write to me ! 

T'ney loved me, and because I love their child 

They hate me: there is war between us, dear, 

Which breaks all bonds but ours ; we must remain 

Sacred to one another." So they talk'd, 

Poor children, for their comfort: the wind blev/ ; 

The rain of heaven, and their own bitter tears, 

Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, mixt 

Upon their faces, as they kiss'd each other 

In darkness, and above them roar'd the pine. 

So Leolin went ; and as we task ourselves 
To learn a language known but smatteringly 
In phrases here and there at random, toil'd 
Mastering the lawless science of our lew, 
That codeless myriad of precedent. 
That wilderness of single instances. 
Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune led. 
May beat a pathway out to wealth and fame. 
The jests, that flash'd about the pleaders ro(i:n, 
Lightning of the hour, the pun, the scurrilous tale,— 
Old scandals buried now seven decades deep 
In other scandals that have lived and died, 
And left the living scandal that shall die— 
Wer« dead to him already; bent as he was 
To make disproof of scorn, and strong in hopes, 
And prodigal of all brain-labor he, 
Charier of sleep, and wine and exercist. 
Except when for a breathing-while at eve 
Some niggard fraction of an hour he ran 
Beside the river-bank: and then indeed 
Harder the times were, and the hands of power 
Were oloodier, and the according hearts ol men 
Seeni'd harder too ; but the soft river-breeze. 
Which fanu'd the gardens of that rival rose 
Yet fragrant in a heart remembering 
His former talks with Edith, on hhn breathed 
Far purelier in his rnshings to and fro, 
After his books, to flush his blood with air, 
Then to his books again. My lady's cousin, 
Half-sickening of his pensioned afternoon, 
Drove in upon the the student once or twice. 
Ran a Malayan muck against ti.e times, 
Had golden hopes for France and all mankind, 
Answer'd all queries touching those at home 
With a heaved shoulder and a saucy smile, 
And fain had haled him out into the world. 
And air'd '.Am there: his nearer friend would say, 
" Screw not the cord too sharply lest it snap." 
Then left alone he pluck'd her dagger forth 
From where his worldless heart had kept it warm 
Kissing his vow.s upon it like a knight. 
And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of him 
Approvingly, and prophesied his rise: 
For heart, I think, help'd head : her letters too, 
Tho' far between, and coming fitfully 
Like broken music, written as she found 

Or made occasion, being strictly watch'd, 
Charm'd him thro' every labyrinth till he saw 
An end, a hope, a light breaking upon him. 

Bat they that cast her spirit into flesh, 
Her worldly-wise begetters, plagued themselves 
To sell her, those good parents, for her good. 
Whatever eldest-born of rank or wealth 
Might lie within their compass, him they lured 
Into their net made pleasant by the baits 
Of gold and beauty, wooing him to woo. 
So month by month the noise about their doors, 
And distant blaze of those dull banquets, made 
The nightly wirer of their innocent hare 
Falter before he took it. All in vain. 
Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, return'd 
Leolin's rejected rivals from their suit 
So often, that the folly taking wings 
Sllpt o'er those lazy limits down the wind 



With rumor, and became in other fields 

A mockery to the yeomen over ale, 

And laughter to their lords: but those at home, 

As hunters round a hunted creature draw 

The cordon close and closer toward the death, 

Narrow'd her goings out and comings in; 

Forbade her first the house of Averill, 

Then closed her access to the wealthier farms, 

Last from her own home-circle of the poor 

They barr'd her: yet she bore it: yet her cheek 

Kept color: wondrous! but, O mystery! 

What amulet drew her down to that old oak, 

So old, that twenty years before, a part 

Falling had let appear the brand of John— 

Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, but now 

The broken base of a black tower, a cave 

Of touchwood, with a single flourishing spray. 

There the manorial lord too curiously 

Raking in that millennial touchwood-dust 

Found for himself a bitter treasure-trove ; 

Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and read 

Writhing a letter from his child, for which 

Came at the moment Leolin's emissary, 

A crippled lad, and coming turn'd to fly. 

But scared with threats of jail and halter gavs 

To him that fluster'd his poor parish wits 

The letter which he brought, and swore besides 

To play their go-between as heretofore 

Nor let them know themselves betray'd, and ihea, 

Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, went 

Hating his own lean heart and miserable. 

Thenceforward oft from out a despot dream 
Panting he woke, and oft as early as dawn 
Aroused the black republic on his elms, 
Sweeping the frothily from the fescue, brush'd 
Thro' the dim meadow toward his treasure-trove, 
Seized it, took home, and to my lady, who made 
A downward crescent of her minion mouth. 
Listless in all despondence, read ; and tore, 
As if the living passion symbol'd there 
Were living nerves to feel the rent ; and burnt. 
Now chafing at his own great self defied. 
Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks of scorn 
In babyisms, and dear diminutives 
Seatter'd all over the vocabulary 
Of such a love as like a chidden babe. 
After much wailing, hush'd itself at last 
Hopeless of answer: then tho' Averill wrote 
And bade him with good heart sustain himself— 
All would be well— the lover heeded not. 
But passionately restless came and went. 
And rustling once at night about the place, 
There by a keeper shot at, slightly hurt. 
Raging return'd : nor was it well for her 
Kept to the garden now, and grove of pines, 
Watch'd even there: and one was set to watch 
The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd them all. 
Yet bitterer from his readings: once indeed, 
Warm'd with his wines, or taking pride in her. 
She look'd so sweet, lie kiss'd her tenderly. 
Not knowing what possess'd him: that one kiss 
Was Leolin's one strong rival upon earth ; 
Seconded, for my lady foUow'd suit, 
Scem'd hope's returning rose: and then ensued 
A Martin's summer of his faded love. 
Or ordeal by kindness; after this 
He seldom crost his child without a sneer; 
The mother flow'd in shallower acrimonies: 
Never one kindly smile, one kindly word : 
So that the gentle creature shut from all 
Her charitable use, and face to face 
With twenty months of silence, slowly lost 
Nor greatly cared to lose, her hold on life. 
Last, some low fever ranging round to spy 
The weakness of a people or a house. 
Like flies that haunt a wound, or deer, or men. 
Or almost all that is, hurting the hurt— 



AYLMER'S FIELD. 



131 



Save Christ as we believe him— found the girl 
And flung her down uiion a couch of fire, 
Where careless of the houschcld faces near, 
And crying upon the name of Leoliu, 
She, and with her the race of Aylmer, past. 

Star to star vibrates light : may soul to soul 
Strike thro' a tiner element of her own 1 
So, — from afar, — touch as at once ? or why 
That night, that moment, when she named his name, 
Did the keen shriek, "Yes love, yes Edith, j-es," 
Shrill, till the comrade of his chambers woke. 
And came upon him half-ariseu from sleep, 
With a weird bright eye, sweating and trembling, 
His hair as it were crackling into flames, 
His body half flung forward in pursuit. 
And his long arms stretch'd as to grasp a flyer: 
Nor knew he wherefore he had made the cry : 
And being much befool'd and idioted 
By the rough amity of the other, sank 
As into sleep again. The second day, 
My lady's Indian kinsman rushing in, 
A breaker of the bitter news from home. 
Found a dead man, a letter edged with death 
Beside him, and the dagger which himself 
Gave Edith, reddeu'd with no bandit's blood 
"From Edith" was engraven on the blade. 

Then Averill went and gazed upon his death. 
And when he came again, his flock believed — 
Beholding how the 5'ears which are not Time's 
Had blasted him— that many thousand days 
Were dipt by horror from his term of life. 
Yet the sad mother, for the second death 
Scarce touch'd her thro' that nearness of the first. 
And being used to find her pastor texts, 
Sent to the harrow'd brother, praying him 
To speak before the people of her child. 
And flxt the Sabbath. Darkly that day rose: 
Autumn's mock sunshine of the faded woods 
Was all the life of it ; for hard on these, 
A breathless burthen of low-folded heavens 
Stifled and chill'd at once: but every roof 
Sent out a listener: many too had known 
Edith among the hamlets round, and since 
The parents' harshness and the hapless loves 
And double death were widely murninr'd, left 
Their own gray tower, or plain-faced tabernacle. 
To hear him ; all in mourning these, and those 
With blots of it about them, ribbon, glove 
Or kerchief; while the church,— one night, except 
For greenish glimmerings thro' the lancets,— made 
Still paler the pale head of h'm, who tower'd 
Above them, with his hopes in either grave. 

Long o'er his bent brows linger'd Averill, 
His face magnetic to the hand from which 
Livid he pluck'd it forth, and labor'd thro' 
His brief prayer-prelude, gave the verse "Behold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate !" 
But lapsed into so long a pause again 
As half amazed, half frighted all his flock: 
Then from his height and loneliness of grief 
Bore down in flood, and dash'd his angry heart 
Against the desolations of the world. 

Never since our bad earth became one sea. 
Which rolling o'er the palaces of the proud. 
And all but those who knew the living God- 
Eight that were left to make a ijuier world— 
When since had flood, fire, earthquake, thunder, 

wrought 
Such waste and havoc as the idolatries, 
Which from the low light of mortality 
Shot up their shadows to the Heaven of Heavens, 
And worshipt their own darkness as the Hiirhest? 
"Gash thyself, priest, ind honor thy brute Bai'il, 



And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself. 
For with thy worst self hast thou clothed thy God." 
Then came a Lord in no wise like to Baiil. 
The babe shall lead the lion. Surely now 
The wilderness shall blossom as the rose. 
Crown thyself, worm, and worship thine own lusts !— 
No coarse and blockish God of acreage 
Stands at thy gate for thee to grovel to — 
Thy God is far difl'used in noble groves 
And princely halls, and farms, and flowing lawns, 
And heaps of living gold that daily grow. 
And title-scrolls and gorgeous heraldries. 
In such a shape dost thou behold thy God. 
Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for him; for thins 
Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair 
RuSled upon the scarfskiu, even while 
The deathless ruler of thy dying house 
Is wounded to the death that cannot die ; 
And tho' thou uumberest with the followers 
Of One who cried "Leave all and follow me." 
Thee therefore with His light about thy feet, 
Thee with His message ringing in thine ears. 
Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord from Heaven, 
Born of a village girl, carpenter's son. 
Wonderful, Prince of peace, the Mighty God, 
Count the more base idolater of the two; 
Crueller : as not passing thro' the fire 
Bodies, but souls— thy children's — thro' the smoke, 
The blight of low desires— darkening thine own 
To thine own likeness ; or if one of these, 
Thy better born unhappily from thee. 
Should, as by miracle, grow straight and fair- 
Friends, I was bid to speak of such a one 
By those who most have cause to sorrow for her— 
Fairer thaa Rachel by the palmy well. 
Fairer than Ruth among the fields of corn, 
Fair as the Angel that said "hail" she seem'd. 
Who entering fill'd the house with sudden light. 
For so mine own was brighteu'd : where indeed 
The roof so lowly but that beam of Heaven 
Dawn'd sometimes thro' the doorway? whose tht 

babe 
Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, 
Warm'd at her bosom ? The ])oor child of shame, 
The common care whom no one cared for, leapt 
To greet her, wasting his forgotten heart. 
As with the mother he had never known. 
In gambols; for her fresh and innocent eyes 
Had such a star of morning in their blue. 
That all neglected places of the field 
Broke into nature's music when they saw her. 
Low was her voice, but won mj'sterious way 
Thro' the seal'd ear, to which a louder one' 
Was all but silence— free of alms her hand— 
The hand that robed your cottage-walls with flowers 
Has often toil'd to clothe your little ones ; 
How often placed upon the sick man's brow 
Cool'd it, or laid his feverous pillow smooth 1 
Had you one sorrow and she shared it not? 
One burthen and she would not lighten it? 
One spiritual doubt she did not soothe ? 
Or when some heat of diff"erence sparkled out. 
How sweetly would she glide between ycur wraths, 
And steal you from each other ! for she walk'd 
Wearing the light yoke of that Lord of love. 
Who still'd the rolling wave of Galilee ! 
And one- of him I was not bid to speak— 
Was always with her, whom you also knew. 
Him too you loved, for he was worthy love. 
And these had been together from the first; 
They might have been together till the last. 
Friends, this frail bark of ours, when sorely tried, 
May wreck itself without the pilot's guilt," 
Without the captain's knowledge : hope with me. 
Whose shame is that, if he went hence with Bhamef 
Nor mine the fault, if losing both of these 
I cry to vacant chairs snd widow'd walls, 
"My house is left unto me desolate." 



232 



SEA DREAMS, 



M'hile thus he spoke, his hearers wept ; but some, 
Sons of the glebe, with other frowns thau those 
That knit themselves for summer shadow, scowl'd 
At their great lord. He, when it seein'd he saw 
No pale sheet-lightnings from afar, but fork'd 
Of the near storm, and aiming at his lioad, 
Sat anger-charni'd from sorrow, soldier-like, 
Erect: but when the preacher's cadence flow'd 
Softening thro' all the gentle attributes 
Of his lost child, the wile, who watch'd his fnce. 
Paled at a sudden twitch of hU iron mouth ; 
And, "O pray God that he hold up," she thought, 
"Or surely I shall shame myself and him." 

"Nor yours theblam.e— for who beside your hearths 
Can take her place— if echoing me you cry 
' Our house is left unto us desolate ?' 
But thou, O thou that killest, hadst thou known, 
O thou that stonest, hadst thou understood 
The things belonging to thy peace and ours ! 
Is there uo prophet but the voice that calls 
Doom upon kings, or in the waste ' Repent ?' 
Is uot our own child on the narrow way, 
Who down to those that saunter in the broad 
Cries ' Come up hither,' as a prophet to us ? 
Is there no stoning save with flint and rock ? 
Yes, as the dead we weep for testify — 
No desolation but by sword and flre ? 
Yes, as your moauings witness, and myself 
Am lonelier, darker, earthlier for my loss. 
Give me your prayers, for he is past your prayers. 
Not past the living fount of pity in Heaven. 
But I tliat thought myself long-suftering, meek. 
Exceeding 'poor iu spirit'— how the words 
Have twisted back upon themselves and mean 
Vileuess, we are grown so proud— I wisli'd my voice 
A rushing tempest of the wrath of God 
To blow these sacrifices thro' the world — 
Sent like the twelve-divided concubine 
To inflame the tribes ; but there— out yonder— earth 
Lightens from her own central Hell— O there 
The red fruit of an old idolatry— 
The heads of chiefs and princes fall so fast. 
They cling together in the ghastly sack — 
The land all shambles— naked marriages 
Flash from the bridge, and ever-murder'd France, 
By shores that darken with the gathering wolf. 
Runs iu a river of blood to the sick sea. 
Is this a time to madden madness then ? 
Was this a time for these to flaunt their pride ? 
May Pharaoh's darkness, folds as dense as those 
Which hid the Holiest from the people's eyes 
Ere the great death, shroud this great sin from all; 
Doubtless our narrow world must canvass it; 

ratlier pray for those and pity them 

Who thro' their own desire accomplish'd bring 
Their own gray hairs with sorrow to the grave — 
Who broke the bond which they desired to break — 
Which else had link'd their I'ace with times to 

come — 
Who wove coarse webs to snare her purity. 
Grossly contriving their dear daughter's good- 
Poor souls, and knew uot what they did, but sat 
Ignorant, devising their own daughter's death 
May uot that earthly chastisement sulHcc? 
Have not our love and reveience left tliem bare? 
Will not another take their heritage? 
,Will there be children's laughter iu their hall 
Forever and forever, or one stone 
Left on another, or is it a light tiling 
That I their guest, their host, their ancient friend, 

1 made by these the last of all my race 
Must cry to these the last of theirs, as cried 
Christ ere His agony to those that swore 
Not by the temple but the gold, and made 
The-v own traditions God, and slew the Lord, 
And left their memories a world's curse — 'Behold, 
Your house is left unto you desolate?'" 



Ended he had not, but she brook'd no mort ; 
Long since her heart had beat remorselessly. 
Her crampt-up sorrow paiu'd her, and a sense 
Of meanness in her uuresisting life. 
Then their eyes vext her; for on entering 
He had cast the curtains of their seat aside- 
Black velvet of the costliest — she herself 
Had seen to that: fain had she closed them now, 
Yet dared uot stir to do it, only near'd 
Her husband inch by inch, but when she laid, 
Wifelike, her hand in one of his, he veii'd 
His face with the other, and at once, as folia 
A creeper when the prop is broken, fell 
The woman shrieking at his fcer, and swoon'd. 
Then her own people bore along the nave 
Her pendent hands, and narrow meagre face 
Seam'd with the shallow cares of tifiy years: 
And her the Lord of all the landscape round 
Ev'u to its last horizon, and of all 
Who peer'd at him so keenly, follow'd out 
Tall and erect, but in the middle aisle 
Reel'd, as a footsore ox iu crowded ways 
Stumbling across the market to his death, 
Unpitied ; for he groped as blind, and seem'd 
Always about to fall, grasping the pews 
And oaken flnials till he tonch'd the door; 
Yet to the 13'chgate, where his chariot stood. 
Strode from the porch, tall and erect again. 

But nevermore did either pass the gate 
Save under pall with bearers. In one mouth. 
Thro' weary and yet ever wearier hours. 
The childless mother went to seek her child; 
And when he felt the silence of his house 
About him, and the change and not the change. 
And those flxt eyes of painted ancestors 
Staring forever from their gilded walls 
On him their last descendant, his own head 
Began to droop, to fall ; the man became 
Imbecile ; his one word was " desolate ;" 
Dead for two years before his death was he ; 
But when the second Christmas came, escaped 
His keepers, and the silence which he felt, 
To find a deeper in the narrow gloom 
By wife and child; nor wanted at his end 
The dark retinue reverencing death 
At golden thresholds ; nor from tender hearts. 
And those who sorrow'd o'er a vanish'd race. 
Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave. 
Then the great Hall was wholly broken down. 
And the broad woodland parcell'd into farms; 
And where the two contrived their daughter's good. 
Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has made his run, 
The hedgehog underneath the plantain bores. 
The rabbit fondles his own harmless face. 
The slow-worm creeps, and the thin weasel thera 
Follows the mouse, and all is open field. 



SEA DREAMS. 

A otTV clerk, but gently born and bred; 
Ilis wife, an unknown artist's orphan child- 
One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three years old : 
They, tliinking that her clear germander eye 
Droopt in the giant-factoried city^gloom. 
Came, with a month's leave given them, to the sea: 
For which his gains were dock'd, however small: 
Small were his gains, and hard his work; besides. 
Their slender lioust-liold fortunes (for the man 
Had risk'd his little) like the little thrift, 
Trembled in perilous places o'er a deep; 
And oft, when sitting all alone, his face 
Would darken, as he cursed his credulousness. 
And that one unctuous mouth which lured him, rogue, 
To buy strange shares in some Peruvian mine. 
Now seaward-bound for health they gain'd a coast. 



SEA DREAMS. 



233 



All saud aiul clift' and deep-innmuing cave, 

At clothe of day; slept, woke, and went the next, 

The Sabbath, pious variers from the church, 

To chapel ; where a heated pulpiteer. 

Not preaching simple Christ to simple men. 

Announced the coming doom, and fulminated 

Against the scarlet woman and her creed : 

For sideways up he swung his arms, and shriek'd, 

" Thus, thus with violence," ev'n as if he held 

The Apocalyptic millstone, and himself 

Were that great Angel; "thus with violence 

Shall Babylon be cast into the sea; 

Then comes the close." The gentle-hearted wife 

Sat shuddering at the ruin of a world; 

He at his own : but when the wordy storm 

Had ended, forth they came and paced the shore, 

Ran iu and out the long sea-framing caves. 

Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce believed 

(The sootflake of so many a summer still 

Clang to their fancies) that they saw, the sea. 

So now on sand they walk'd, and now on clifl". 

Lingering about the thymy promontories. 

Till all the sails were darken'd in the west. 

And rosed in the east: then homeward and to bed: 

Where she, who kept a tender Christian hope 

Haunting a holy text, and still to that 

Returning, as the bird returns, at night, 

" Let not the sun go down upon your wrath," 

Said, " Love, forgive him :" but he did not speak ; 

And silenced by that silence lay the wife. 

Remembering her dear Lord who died for all. 

And musing on the little lives of men. 

And how they mar this little by their feuds. 

But while the two were sleeping, a full tide 
Rose with ground-swell, which, on the foremost rocks 
Touching, tipjetted in spirts of wild sea-smoke, 
And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, and fell 
In vast sea-cataracts — ever and anon 
Dead claps of thunder from within the cliffs 
Heard thro' the living roar. At this the babe, 
Their Margaret cradled near them, wail'd and woke 
The mother, and the father snddenly cried, 
"A wreck, a wreck !" then tnrn'd, and groaning said 

"Forgive ! How many will say ' forgive,' and find 
A sort of absolution iu the sound 
To hate a little longer ! No ; the sin 
That neither God nor man can well forgive, 
Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. 
Is it so true that second thoughts are best? 
Not first, and third, which are a riper first? 
Too ripe, too late ! they come too late for use. 
Ah love, there surely lives in man and beast 
Something divine to warn them of their foes; 
And such a sense, when first I fronted him. 
Said, 'Trust him not;' but after, when I came 
To know him more, I lost it, knew him less; 
Fought with what seem'd my own uncharity ; 
Sat at his table ; drank his costly wines ; 
Made more and more allowance for his talk; 
Went further, fool ! and trusted him with all. 
All my poor scrapings from a dozen years 
Of dust and deskv.'ork ; there is no such mine. 
None ; but a gnlf of ruin, swallowing gold, 
Not making. Ruin'd ! ruin'd ! the sea roars 
Ruin: a fearful night'." 

" Not fearful ; fair," 
Said the good wife, " if every star in heaven 
Can make it fair: you do but hear the tide. 
Had yon ill dreams ?" 

"O yes," he paid, " I dream'd 
Of such a tide swelling toward the land. 
And I from out the bonndless outer deep 
Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd one 
Of those dark caves that run beneath the cliffs. 



I thought the motion of the boundless deep 

Bore through the cave, and I was heaved upon it 

In darkness : then I saw one lovely star 

Larger and larger. 'What a world,' I thought, 

' To live in '.' but in moving on I found 

Only the landward exit of the cave. 

Bright with the sun upon the stream beyond: 

And near the light a giant woman sat. 

All over earthy, like a piece of earth, 

A pickaxe iu her hand : then out I slipt 

Into a laud all sun and blossom, trees 

As high as heaven, and every bird that sings: 

And here the night-light flickering iu my eyes 

Awoke me." 

"That was then your dream," she said, 
"Not sad, but sweet." 

" So sweet, I lay," said be, 
" And mused upon it, drifting up the stream 
In fancy, till I slept agaiu, and pieced 
The broken vision ; for I dream'd that still 
The motion of the great deep bore me on, 
And that the woman walk'd upon the brink: 
I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd her of it : 
'It came,' she said, 'by working in the mines:' 

then to ask her of my shares, I thought ; 
And ask'd ; but not a word ; she shook her head. 
Aud then the motion of the current ceased. 
And there was rolling thunder; and we reach'd 
A mountain, like a wall of burrs aud thorns ; 
But she with her strong feet up the steep hill 
Trod out a path : I follow'd ; aud at top 

She pointed seaward : there a fleet of glass, 
That seem'd a fleet of jewels under me, 
Sailiug along before a gloomy cloud 
That not one moment ceased to thunder, past 
In sunshine ; right across its track there lay, 
Down in the water, a long reef of gold. 
Or what seem'd gold: and I was glad at first 
To think that in our often-ransacked world 
Still so much gold was left; and theu I fear'd 
Lest the gay navy there should splinter on it, 
And fearing waved my arm to warn them cfl'; 
An idle signal, for the brittle fleet 
(I thought I could have died to save it) near'd, 
Touch'd, cliuk'd, aud clash'd, aud vauish'd, aud I 
woke, 

1 heard the clash so dearly. Now I see 

My dream was Life; the woman honest Work; 
And my poor venture but a fleet of glass, 
Wreck'd ou a reef of visionary gold." 

"Nay," said the kindly wife to comfort him, 
"You raised your arm, you tumbled down and broke 
The glass with little Margaret's medicine in it ; 
Aud, breaking that, you made and broke your 

dream : 
A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks." 

"No trifle," groau'd the husband; "yesterday 
I met him suddenly in the street, and ask'd 
That which I ask'd the woman in my dream. 
Like her, he shook his head. ' Show me the books !' 
He dodged me with a hmg and loose accouut. 
'The books, the books!' but he, he could not wait, 
B(mnd ou a matter he of l;fe and death: 
When the great Books (see Daniel seven and ten) 
Were open'd, I should find he meant me well: 
And then began to bloat himself, and ooze 
All over with the fat affectionate smile 
That makes the widow lean. 'My dearest friend, 
Have faith, have faith ! We live by faith,' said he ; 
'And all things work together for the good 
Of those '—it makes me sick to quote him— la-^t 
Gript my hand hard, and with God-bless-you went. 
I stood like one that had received a blow: 
I found a hard friend in his loose accounts, 



234 



SEA DREAMS. 



A loose one in the hard grip of liis hand, 
A curse iu his God-bless-you : then my ej'cs 
Pursued him down the street, and far away. 
Among the honest shoulders of the crowd. 
Read rascal in the motions of his back, 
And scoundrel iu the supple-sliding knee." 

"Was he so bound, poor soul?" said the good 

wife ; 
" So are we all : but do not call him, love. 
Before you prove him, rogue, and proved, forgive. 
His gain is loss ; for he that wrongs his frieud 
Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about 
A sileut court of justice in his breast, 
Himself the judge and jury, and himself 
The prisoner at the bar, ever coudemu'd : 
And that drags down his life : then comes what 

comes 
Hereafter: and he meant, he said he meant, 
Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, you well." 

"'With all his conscience and one eye askew' — 
Love, let me quote these lines, that you may learu 
A man is likewise counsel for himself, 
Too often in that silent court of yours— 
'With all his conscience and one eye askew. 
So false, he partly took himself for true ; 
Whose pious talk, when most his heart was dry. 
Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round his eye ; 
Who, never naming God except for gain. 
So never took that useful name iu vain ; 
Made Him his catspaw aud the Cross his tool. 
And Christ the bait to trap his dupe and fool ; 
Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace he forged. 
And snakelike slimed his victim ere he gorj^ed ; 
Aud oft at Bible meetings, o'er the rest 
Arising, did his holy oily best. 
Dropping the too rough H in Hell and Heaven, 
To spread the Word by which himself had thriven.' 
How like you this old satire?" 

"Nay," she said, 
"I loathe it: he had never kindly heart, 
Nor ever cared to better his own kind. 
Who first wrote satire with no pity in it. 
Bnt will you hear viy dream, for I had one 
That altogether went to music? Still 
It awed me." 

Then she told it, having dream'd 
Of that same coast. 

—"But round the North, a light, 
A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, lay, 
And ever in it a low musical note 
Swell'd up and died ; and, as it swell'd, a ridge 
Of breaker issued from the belt, and still 
Grew with the growing note, and when the note 
Had reach'd a thunderous fullness on those cliffs 
Broke, mixt with awful light (the same as that 
Living within the belt) whereby she saw 
That all those lines of cliffs were cliffs no more, 
But huge cathedral fronts of every age, 
Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye conld see. 
One after one: and then the great ridge drew. 
Lessening to the lessening music, back. 
And past into the belt and swell'd again 
Slowly to music: ever when it broke 
The statues, king or saint, or founder, fell ; 
Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin left 
Came men and women in dark clusters round, 
Some crying 'Set them up! they shall not fall!' 
And others, 'Let them lie, for they have fall'n.' 
And still they strove and wrangled : and she grieved 
In her strange dream, she knew not why, to find 
Their wildest wailings never out of tune 
With that sweet note ; and ever as their shrieks 
Ran highest up the gamut, that great wave 



Returning, while none mark'd it, on the crowd 
Broke, mixt with awful light, aud show'd their eyes 
Glaring, and passionate looks, and swept away 
The men of flesh and blood, and men of stone. 
To the waste deeps together. 

"Theu I fixt 
My wistful eyes on two fair images. 
Both crown'd with stars and high among the stars, — 
The Virgin Mother standing with her child 
High up on one of those dark minster-fronts— 
Till she began to totter, and the child 
Clung to the mother, and sent out a cry 
Which mixt with little Margaret's, aud I woke. 
And my dream awed me: — well — but what are 

dreams ? 
Yours came but from the breaking of a class, 
And mine but from the crying of a child." 

"Child? No!" said he, "but this tide's roar, and 

his. 
Our Boanerges, with his threats of doom, 
And loud-Iung'd Antibabylonianisms 
(Altho' I grant but little music there) 
Went both to make your dream: but if there were 
A music harmonizing our wild cries, 
Sphere-music such as that you dream'd about, 
Why, that would make our passions far too like 
The discords dear to the musician. No — 
One shriek of hate would jar all the hj'mns of 

heaven : 
True Devils with no ear, they howl in tune 
With nothing but the Devil !" 

" 'True' indeed! 
One of our town, but later by an hour 
Here than ourselves, spoke with me on the shore; 
While you were running down the sands, and madv 
The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbclow flap. 
Good man, to please the child. She brought Strang- 

news. 
Why were you silent when I spoke to-night? 
I had set my heart on your forgiving him 
Before you knew. We viust forgive the dead." 

" Dead ! who is dead ?" 

" The man your eye pursued. 
A little after you had parted with him. 
He tuddenly dropt dead of heart-disease." 

"Dead? he? of heart-disease? what heart had he 
To die of? dead !" 

" Ah, dearest, if there be 
A devil in man, there is an angel too, 
Aud if he did that wrong you charge him with. 
His angel broke his heart. But your rough voice 
(You spoke so loud) has roused the child again. 
Sleep, little birdie, sleep ! will she not sleep 
Without her ' little birdie ?' well theu, sleep, 
And I will sing you 'birdie.'" 

Saying this. 
The woman half turn'd round from him she loved, 
Left him one hand, aud reaching thro' the night 
Her other, found (for it was close beside) 
And half embraced the basket cradle-head 
With one soft arm, which, like the pliant bough 
That moving moves the nest and nestling, sway'd 
The cradle, while she sang this baby song. 

What does little birdie say 
In her nest at peep of day? 
Let me fly, says little birdie. 
Mother, let me fly away. 
Birdie, rest a little longer, 
Till the little wings are stronger. 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 



235 



So she rests a little longer, 
Then she flies away. 

What does little baby eay, 
In her bed at peep of day? 
Baby says, like little birdie, 
Let me rise and fly away. 
Baby, sleep a little longer. 
Till the little limbs are stronger. 
If she sleeps a little longer, 
Baby too shall fly away. 



" She sleeps : let us too, let all evil, sleep. 
He also sleeps — another sleep than ours. 
He can do no more wrong : forgive him, dear, 
And I shall sleep the sounder !" 

Then the man, 
"His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come. 
Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound : 
I do forgive him !" 

"Thanks, my love," she said, 
"Your own will be the sweeter," aud they slept. 



THE GRANDMOTHER. 



And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne ? 
Riuldy aud white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man. 
And Willy's wife has written : she never was over-wise, 
Never the wife for Willy: he would n"t take my advice. 

n. 

For, Annie, yon see, her father was not the man to save. 
Had n't a head to manage, aud drank himself into his grave. 
Pretty enough, very pretty 1 but I was against it for one. 
Eh :— but he would n't hear me— and Willy, you say, is gone. 

III. 

Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock; 

Never a man could fling him: for Willy stood like a rock. 

" Here's a leg for a baby of a week !" says doctor : aud he would be bound. 

There was not his like that year iu twenty parishes round. 

IV. 
Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue l 
I ought to have gone liefore him: I wonder he weut so young. 
I cannot cry for him, Annie: I have not long to stay; 
Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he live J far away. 

V. 

Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and cold; 
But all my childreu have gone before me, I am so old : 
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest ; 
Only at your age, Aunie, I could have wept with the best. 

VI. 

For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear, 
All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear. 
I mean your grandfather, Aunie: it cost me a world of woe, 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. 

VII. 

For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well 
That Jenny had tript in her time: I knew, but I would not tell. 
And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar ! 
But the tongue is a fire, as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire. 

VIII. 

And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise. 
That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies. 
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, 
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight. 

IX. 

And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day; 
And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May. 
Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been ! 
But soiling another, Annie, Avill never make one's self clean. 



And I cried myself wellnigh blind, and all of an evening late 

I climb'd to the top of the garth, aud stood by the road at the gate. 

The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale. 

And whit, whit, whit, iu the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale. 



236 THE GRANDMOTHER. 



XI. 

All of a suclclen he etopt : there past by the gate of the farm, 
\Villy,_he did u't gee me,— and Jeuny hung ou his arm. 
Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how; 
Ah, there's uo fool like the old one— it makes me angry now. 

XII. 

Willy stood up like a mau, and look'd the thing that he meant; 
Jenny, the viper, made me a. mocking courtesy and went. 
And I .said, "Let us part: in a hundred years it '11 all be the same, 
You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name." 

XIII. 
And he turu'cl, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshiuG: 
"Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine. 
And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill; 
But marry me out of hand: we too shall be happy still." 

XIV. 

' Marry you, Willy !" said I, " but I needs must speak my mind. 
And I fear you'll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind." 
But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, "No, love, no;" 
Seventy years ago, my darliug, seventy years ago. 

XV. 

So Willy and I were wedded: I wore a lilac gown; 
And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown. 
But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born, 
Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. 

XVI. 

That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. 

There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath. 

I had not wept, little Annie, not since I had been a wife ; 

ant i wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life. 

XVII. 

His dear little face was troubled, as if with auger or pain : 

I look'd at the still little body— his trouble had all been in vain. 

For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn : 

But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born. 

XVIII. 
But he chcer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said mc nay: 
Kiud, like a mau, was he; like a man, too, would have his way: 
Never jealous— not he : we had many a happy year ; 
And he died, and I could not weep— my own time seem'd so near. 

XIX. 

But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could have diad.- 
I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side. 
And°that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget: 
But as to the children, Annie, they 're all about me yet. 

XX. 

Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left mc at two, 
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you: 
Pattering over the boards, she ccmies and goes at her will. 
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hilL 

XXI. 

And Harry and Charlie, T hear them too— they sing to their team: 
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream. 
They conie and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed— 
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. 

XXII. 

And yet I know for a truth, there 's none of them left alive ; 
For Il.ivry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five: 
And Willy, my cidest-born, at nigh threescore and ten; 
I knew them all as babies, and now they 're elderly men. 

XXIII. 

For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve; 
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve: 
And the neighbors come and laucrh and gossip, and so do I; 
I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 237 



To be sure the preacher says, our sins shoukl make us sad : 
But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had ; 
And God, not man, is tne Judge of us all when life shall ceass ; 
And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace. 

XXV. 

And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain, 
Aud happy has been my life ; but I would not live it again. 
I seem to be tired a little, that 's all, and long for rest : 
Only at j'our age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. 

XXVI. 
So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower ; 
But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for au hour,— . 
Gone for a minute, my sou, from this room into the next ; 
I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext? 

XXVII. 

And Willy's wife has written, she never was over-wise. 

Get me my glasses, Annie: thank God that 1 keep my eyes. 

There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away. 

But stay with the old woman now: you cannot have long to stiy. 



NORTHERN FARMER. 

OLD STYLE. 
I. 

WnEEK 'astft bean saw long and raea liggin' 'ere alo:in ? 
Noorse? thoort uowt o' a noorse: whoy, doctor 's abeiiu au' agoan: 
Says that I mount 'a naw moor yaiile: but I beiint a fool: 
Git ma my yaiile, for I beiint a-gooiu' to breiik my rule. 

II. 

Doctors, they knaws nowt, for a says what 's nawways true: 
Naw soort o' koiud o' use to saiiy the things that a do. 
I 've 'ed my point o' yaiil ivry noight sin' I beiiu 'ere. 
An' I 've 'ed my quart ivry market-uoight for foorty year. 

III. 
Parson 's a beiin loikewoise, an' a sittin 'ere o' my bed. 
" The amofghty 's a taiikin o' you to 'issen, my friend," 'a said, 
An' a towd ma my sins, au 's toithe were due, an' I gied it in lioud; 
I done my duty by un, as I 'a done by the loud. 

IV. 

Larn'd a ma' beii. I reckons I 'annot sa mooch to larn. 

But a cost oop, thot a did, 'boot Bessy Marris's barn. 

Thof a knaws I hallus voiitcd wi' Squoire an' choorch an staiite, 

An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur uiver agin the raiite. 



An' I hallus comed to 's choorch afoor my Sally wur dead, 
An' 'eerd un a bummin' awaiiy loikc a buzzard-clock* ower my yead, 
An' I niver knaw'd whot a meiiu'd but I thowt a 'ad summut to stAy, 
An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said an' I corned awaiiy. 

VI. 

Bessy Marris's barn ! tha knaws she laiiid it to meii. 
Mowt 'a beilu, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, sheii. 
'Siver, I kep un, I kep uu, my lass, tha mun nuderstond ; 
I done my duty by uu as I 'a done by the loud. 

VII. 

But Parson a comes an' a goos, an' a says it eiisy an' free;! 

"The amoighty 's a taiikin o' you to 'issen, my friend," sa3's 'ea. 

I weiint saiiy men be loiars, thof snmmun said it in 'aitste: 

But a reiids wonn sarmin a weeiik, an' I 'a stubb'd Thornaby wafiste. 

VIII. 

D' ya moind the waaste, my lass? naw, naw, tha was not born then; 

Theer wur a boggle in it, X often 'eerd un mysen ; 

Moiist loikc a butter-bump, t for I 'eerd un aboot an aboot. 

But I stubb'd un oop wi' the lot, and raiived an' rembled un oot. 

* Cockchafer. + Bittern. 



238 



TITHONUS. 



IX. 

Kefiper's it wur ; fo' they fnn nn theer a laiiid on 'is faace 
Doou i' the woikl 'enemies* afoor I corned to the phiiice. 
Noiiks or Thimbleby— toner 'ed sliot an as deJid as a naiiil. 
Noiiks wur 'aug'd for it oop at 'soize— but git raa my yaiile. 



Dubbut looiik at the waiiste: theer war n't not feiid for a co'.v; 
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, au' looiik at it now — 
War n't worth nowt a haiicre, an' now theer's lots o' feiid, 
Fourscore yows upon it an' some on it doou iu seud. 

XI. 

Nobbut a bit on it 's left, an' I meau'd to 'a stubb'd it at fall, 
Done it ta-year I nie;in'd, an' runn'd plow thruff it an' all, 
If godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbnt let ma aloiin, 
Meii, wi' liaiite oouderd haiicre o' Squoire's an' loiid o' my oan. 

XII. 

Do godamoighty knaw what a 's doing a-taiikin' o' meii? 

I beiint wonu as saws 'ere a beiin an' yonder a peii ; 

An' Squoire 'nil be sa mad an' all — a' dear a' dear ! 

And I 'a monaged for Squoire come Michaelmas thirty year. 

XIII. 
A mowt 'a taiiken Joi'ines, as 'ant a 'aiipoth o' sense, 
Or a mowt 'a taiiken Rollins— a niver mended a fence: 
But godamoiglity a moost taiike meii an' taiike ma now 
Wi' auf tlie cows to cauve au' Tliornaby liolras to plow ! 

XIV. 

Looiik 'ow quoloty smoiles when they sees ma a passin' by. 

Says to thessen naw doot "what a mon a be sewer-ly !" 

For they knaws what I beiin to Squoire sin fust a comed to tlie 'Alii 

I done my duty by Squoire an' I done my duty by all. 

XV. 

Squoire 's in Lnnnon, an' summun I reclcons 'ull 'a to wroite, 
For who 's to liowd the lond ater meii tliot muddles ma quoit ; 
Sartin-sewer I beii, thot a weiint niver give it to Joiines, 
JSloither a moiint to Robins — a niver rembles the stoiins. 

XVI. 

But summun 'nil come ater meii mayhnp wi' 'is Icittle o' stefim 
Huzzin' an' maiiziu' the blessed feiilds wi' the Divil's oiin teiim 
Gin I mun doy I mnn di>y, an' loifc they says is sweet, 
But gin I muu doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to see it. 

XVII. 

Wliat atta stanuin' theer for, an' doesn bring ma the yaiile ? 
Doctor 's a 'tottlcr, lass, and a 's liallus i' the owd taiile; 
I weiint breiik rules for Doctor, a Icuaws naw moor nor a floy ; 
Git ma my yaiile I tell tha, an' gin I mun doy I muu doy. 



TITHONUS. 

Tee woods decay, the woods decay and fall, 

The vapors weep their burthen to the ground, 

Man comes and tills the licld and lies beneath. 

And after many a summer dies the swan. 

Me only cruel immortality 

Consumes : I wither siowly in thine arms. 

Here at the quiet limit of the world, 

A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream 

The ever silent spiices of the East, 

Far-folded mists, and gleaming balls of morn. 

Alas ! for this gray shadow, once a man— 
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice. 
Who madest him thy chosen, that he secm'd 
To his great heart none other th:in a God ! 
I ask'd thee " Give me immortality." 
Then did'st thou grant mine asking with a smile. 
Like wealthy men who care not how they give. 



But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills, 

And beat me down and marred and wasted me. 

And tho' they could not end mc, left me maini'd 

To dwell in presence of immortal youth, 

Immortal age beside immortal youth. 

And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love. 

Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now. 

Close over us, the silver star, thy guide. 

Shines in those tremulous eyes that till with tears 

To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift: 

Why should a man desire in any way 

To vary from the kindly race of men. 

Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 

Wlieie all should pause, as is most meet for all ? 

A soft air fans the cloud niiart : there comes 
A glimpse of that dark world where I was bnin. 
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals 
From thy pure brows, aud from thy shoulders pure. 



THE VOYAGE. 



239 



Aud bosom beating with a heart reuew'cl. 
Thy chceli begins to redden thro' the gloom, 
Thy -sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, 
Ere yet they blind the stars, aud the wild team 
Which love thee, yearning for tliy yoke, arise, 
Aud shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes, 
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. 

Lo ! ever thus thou growest beautiful 
in silence, then before thine answer given 
Departest, aud thy tears are ou my cheek. 

Why wilt thou ever scare nie with thy tears, 
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt 
In days far-oft', on that dark earth, be true ? 
"The Gods themselves caunot recall their gifts." 

Ay me ! ay me ! Avith what another heart 
In days far-off, and with what other eyes 
I used to watch— if I be he that watch'd — 
The lucid outline forming round thee ; saw 
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; 
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay. 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm 
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd 
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, 
Like that strauge song I heard Apollo sing, 
While Iliou like a mist rose into towers. 

Yet hold me not forever in thine East: 
How can my nature longer mix with thine '! 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about the homes 
Of happy men that have tlie power to die. 
And grassy barrows of the hapjjier dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the ground : 
Thou seiJst all things, thou wilt see my grave ; 
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn ; 
I earth in earth forget these empty courts, 
Aud thee returning ou thy silver wheels. 



THE VOYAGE. 
I. 

We left behind the painted buoy 

That tosses at the harbor-mouth : 
And madly danced our hearts with joy. 

As fast we fleeted to the South : 
How fresh was every sight and sound 

On open main or winding shore ! 
We knew the merry world was round, 

Aud we might sail forcvermore. 

n. 

Warm broke the breeze against the brow, 

Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail ; 
The Lady's-head upon the prow 

Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd the gale. 
The broad seas swell'd to meet the keel. 

And swept behind : so quick the run. 
We felt the good ship shake and reel. 

We seem'd to sail into the Sun ! 

III. 
How oft we saw the Sun retire, 

And burn the threshold of the night, 
Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire, 

And sleep beneath his pillar'd light i 
How oft the purple-skirted robe 

Of twilight slowly downward drawn, 
As thro' the slumber of the globe 

Again we dash'd into the dawn! 

16 



IV. 

New stars all night above the brim 

Of waters lighten'd into view ; 
They climb'd as quickly, for the rim 

Changed every moment as we flew. 
Far ran the naked moon across 

The houseless ocean's heaving field, 
Or flying shone, the silver boss 

Of her own halo's dusky shield ; 

V. 
The peaky islet shifted shapes. 

High towns on hills were dimly seen, 
We past long lines of Northern capes 

And dewy Northern meadows green. 
We came to warmer waves, and deep 

Across the boundless east we drove, 
W^here those long swells of breaker sweep 

The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. 

VI. 

By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, 

Gloom'd the low coast and quivering brint, 
With ashy rains, that spreading made 

Fantastic plume or sable pine : 
By sands aud steaming flats, and floods 

Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast. 
And hills aud scarlet-mingled woods 

Glow'd for a moment as we past. 

VII. 

O hundred shores of happy climes, 

How swiftly stream'd ye by the bark! 
.\t times the whole sea buru'd, at times 

With wakes of Are we tore the dark.- 
At times a carven craft would shoot 

From havens hid in fairy bowers. 
With naked limbs aud flowers aud fruit. 

But wc nor paused for fruits nor flowers. 

VIII. 

For one fliir Vision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day aud uight, 
And still we follow'd where she led, 

lu hope to gain upon her flight. 
Her face was evermore unseen, 

Aud fixt upon the far sea-liue ; 
But each man murmur'd, "O my Queen, 

1 follow till I make thee mine." 

IX. 

And now we lost her, now she gleam'd 

Like Fancy made of golden air. 
Now nearer to the prow she seem'd 

Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair. 
Now high on waves that idly burst 

Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd the si^a, 
And now, the bloodless point reversed. 

She bore the blade of Liberty. 



And only one among us— him 

We pleased not— he was seldom pleased; 
He saw not far: his eyes were dim: 

But ours he swore were all diseased. 
"A ship of fools," he shriek'd in spite, 

"A ship of fools," he sneer'd and wept. 
And overboard one stormy night 

He cast his body, and on we swept. 

XL 

Aud never sail of ours was fiirl'd. 

Nor auchor dropt at eve or morn ; 
We loved the glories of the world ; 

But laws of nature were our scoru -, 
For blasts would rise and rave and cease. 

But whence were those that drove the sail 
Across the whirlwind s heart of peace, 

And to and thro' the counter-gale? 



240 



IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ.— THE RINGLET. 



XII. 

Asain to colder climes we came, 

For still we foUow'd where she led: 
Now mate is blind and captain lame, 

And half the crew are sick or dead, 
fiat blind or lame or sick or sound, 

We follow that which flies before: 
We know the merry world is round, 

And we may sail forevermore. 



IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ. 

Am- along the valley, stream that flashest white, 

Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night, 

All along the valley, where thy waters flow, 

I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years ago. 

All along the valley, while I walk'd to-day, 

Tlie two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away; 

For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed. 

Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead, 

And al! along the valley, by i"ock and cave and tree, 

The voice of the dead was a living voice to me. 



THE FLOWER. 

Once in a golden hour 

I cast to earth a seed. 
Up there came a flower. 

The people said, a weed. 

To and fro they \^'ent 
Thro' my garden-bower, 

And mnltering discontent 
Cursed me and my flower. 

Then it grew so tall 
It wore a crown of light. 

But thieves from o'er the wall 
Stole the seed by night. 

Sovv'd it far and wide 
By every town and tower. 

Till all the people cried, 
" Splendid is the flower." 

Head my little fable : 
He that runs may read. 

Most can raise the flowers now, 
For all have got the seed. 

And some are pretty enough. 
And some are poor Indeed ; 

And now again the people 
Call it but a weed. 



THE ISLET. 

•'WuiTHER, O whither, love, shall we go, 
For a score of sweet little summers or so?" 
The sweet little wife of the singer said 
Ou the day that foUow'd the day she was wed ; 
'Whither, O whither, love, shall we go?' 
And the singer shaking his curly head 
Turu'd as he sat, and struck the keys 
There at Viis right with a sudden crash. 
Singing, " And shall it be over the seas 
With a crew that is neither rude nor rash, 
But a bevy of Eroses apple-chcek'd, 
Tn a shallop of crystal ivory-bcak'd. 
With a satin sail of a ruby glow. 
To a sweet little Eden ou earth that I know, 
A mountain islet pointed and peak'd ; 
Waves ou a diamond shingle dash, 



Cataract brooks to the ocean run, 
Fairily-delicate palaces shine 
Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine, 
And overstream'd and silvery-streak'd 
With many a rivulet high against the Sun 
The fixcets of the glorious mountain flash 
Above the valleys of palm and pine." 

"Thither, O thither, love, let us go." 

"No, no, no '. 

For in all that exquisite isle, my dear. 

There is but one bird with a musical throat, 

Aud his compass is but of a single note. 

That it makes one weary to hear." 

"Mock me not ! mock me not I love, let xis go." 

"No, love, no. 

For the bud ever breaks into bloom on the tree, 
And a storm never wakes on the lonely sea, 
And a worm is there in the lonely wood. 
That pierces the liver and blackens the blood, 
Aud makes it a sorrow to be." 



REQUIESCAT. 

Fatk is her cottage in its place. 
Where yon broad water sweetly slowly 

It sees itself from thatch to base 
Dream iu the sliding tides. 



rlides. 



Aud fairer she, but ah, how soon to die ! 

Iler quiet dream of life this hour may cease. 
Her peaceful being slowly passes by 

To some more perfect peace. 



THE SAILOR-BOY. 

He rose at dawn and, flred with hope. 
Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar, 

And reach'd the ship and caught the rope, 
Aud whistled to the morning star. 

And while he whistled long and loud 
He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, 

"O Boy, tho' thou art young and proud, 
I see the place where thou wilt lie. 

"The sands and yeasty surges mix 

In caves about the dreary bay, 
Aud on thy ribs the limpet sticks. 

And in thy heart the scrawl shall play." 

"Fool," he answer'd, "death is sure 
To those that stay aud those that roam, 

But I will nevermore endure 
To sit with empty hands at home. 

"My mother clings about my neck, 
My sisters crying, 'Stay, for shame;' 

My father raves of death and wreck. 
They are all to blame, they are all to blanis 

"God help me! .save I take my part 

Of danger on the roaring sea, 
A devil rises in my heart, 

F;;r worse than any death to me." 



THE RINGLET. 

"YocR ringlets, your ringlets, 
That look so goklen-gay. 

If you will give me one, but ouo- 
To kiss it night aud day, 



A WELCOiME TO ALEXASIDRA.— A DEDICATION. 



241 



Then never chilling touch of Time 

Will turn it silver-gray ; 
And then shall I know it is all true gold 
To flame and sparkle and stream as of old, 
Till all the comets iu heaven are cold, 

And all her stars decay." 
"Then take it, love, and put it by; 
This cannot change, nor yet can I." 

2. 

"My ringlet, my ringlet. 

That art so goldeu-gay. 
Now never chilling touch of Time 

Can turn thee silver-gray ; 
And a lad may wink, and a girl may hint, 

And a fool may say his say ; 
For my doubts and fears were all amiss. 
And I swear henceforth by this and this, 
That a doubt will only come for a kiss, 

And a fear to be kiss'd away." 
"Then kiss it, love, and put it by: 
If this can change, why so can I." 



Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

I kiss'd yon night and day. 
And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You still are golden-gay. 
But Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

You should be silver-gray: 
For what is this which now I 'm told, 

1 that took you for true gold, 

She that gave you 's bought and sold. 
Sold, sold. 

2. 
O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She blush'd a rosy red, 
When Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She dipt you from her head. 
And Ringlet, O Ringlet, 

She gave you me, and said, 
" Come, kiss it, love, and put it by : 
If this can change, why so can I." 
O fie, you golden nothing, fie 

Y*ou golden lie. 



O Ringlet, O Ringlet, 
I count you much to blame, 

For Ringlet, O Ringlet, 
You put me much to shame, 

So Ringlet, O Ringlet, 
I doom you to the tlame. 

For what is this which now I learn, 

Has given all my faith a turn ? 

Burn, you glossy heretic, burn. 
Burn, burn. 



A WELCOME TO ALEXAISTDRA. 

March 7, 18G3. 

Sea-kings' daughter from over the sea, 

Alexandra I 

Saxon and Norman and Dane are we. 

But all of us Danes iu our welcome of thee, 

Alexandra ! 

Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet ! 

Welcome her, thundering cheer of the street ! 

AVelcome her, all things youthful and sweet. 

Scatter the blossom under her feet! 

Break, happy land, into earlier flowers ! 

Make music, O bird, in the new-budded bowers '. 

Blazon your mottoes of blessing and prayer ! 

Welcome her, welcome her, all that is ours ! 



Warble, O bngle, and trumpet, blare ! 
Flags, flutter out upon turrets and towers ! 
Flames, on the windy headland flare ! 
Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire 1 
Clash, ye bells, iu the merry March air ! 
Flash, ye cities, iu rivers of fire ! 
Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and higher 
Melt into the stars for the land's desire ! 
Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice. 
Roll as a ground-swell dash'd on the strand, 
Roar as the sea when he welcomes the land. 
And welcome her, welcome tlie land's desire. 
The sea-kings' daughter as happy as fair, 
Blissful bride of a blissful heir. 
Bride of the heir of the kings of the sea — 
O joy to the people, and joy to the throne. 
Come to us, love us, and make us your own . 
For Saxon or Dane or Norman we. 
Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, 
We are each all Dane iu our welcome of thee, 

Alexandra ! 



ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING OF THE 
INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION. 

Uplift a thousand voices full and sweet. 
In this wide hall with earth's invention stored. 
And praise th' invisible universal Lord, 

Who lets once more in peace the nations meet, 
Wlicre Science, Art, and Labor have outpour'd 

Their myriad horns of plenty at our feet. 

O silent ftither of our Kings to be 

Mourn'd in this golden hour of jubilee. 

For this, for all, we weep our thanks to thee '. 

The world-compelling plan was thine, 

And lol the long laborious miles. 

Of Palace : lo ! the giant aisles. 

Rich iu model and design ; 

Harvest-tool and husbandry, 

Loom and wheel and eugiu'ry, 

Secrets of the sullen mine, 

Steel and gold, and corn and wine, 

Fabric rough, or Fairy flue, 

Suuny tokens of the Line, 

Polar marvels, and a feast 

Of wonder out of West and East, 

And shapes and hues of Art divine I 

All of beauty, all of use, 

That one fair planet can produce. 

Brought from under every star, 
Blown from over every main. 
And mixt, as life is mixt with pain, 

The works of peace with works of war. 

O ye, the wise who think, the wise who reign. 
From growing commerce loose her latest chain. 
And let the fair white-winged peacemaker fly 
To happy havens under all the sky, ■ 
And mix the seasons and the golden hours, 
Till each man finds his own in all men's good, 
And all men work in noble brotherhood, 
Breaking their mailed fleets and armed towers, 
And ruling by obeying Nature's powers, 
And gathering all the fruits of peace and crown'd 
with all her flowers. 



A DEDICATION. 

Dear, near and true— no truer Time himself 
Can prove you, tho' he make you evemiore 
Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life 
Shoots to the fall— take this, and pray that he. 



242 THE CArTAIN.— THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE.— ON A MOT^ENEK. 



Who wrote it, honoring your sweet faith in liim, 
May trust himself; and spite of praise and scorn, 
As one who feels the immeasurable world, 
Attain the wise indifference of the wis^e ; 
And after Autumn past— if left to pass 
His autumn into seeming-leafless days — 
Draw toward the long frost and longest night, 
Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the fruit 
Which in our w'iuter woodland looks a flower.* 



THE CAPTAIN. 

A LKGEND OF THE NAVY. 

He that only rules by terror 

Doeth grievous wrong. 
Deep as Hell I count his error, 

Let him hear my song. 
Brave the Captain was : the seamtn 

Made a gallant crew. 
Gallant sons of English freemen, 

Sailors bold and true. 
But they hated his oppression, 

Stern he was and rash ; 
So for every light transgression 

Doom'd them to the lash. 
Day by day more harsh and cruel 

Seem'd the Captain's mood. 
Secret wrath like smother'd fuel 

Burnt in each man's blood. 
Yet he hoped to purchase glory, 

Hoped to make the name 
Of his vessel great in story, 

Wheresoe'er he came. 
So they past by capes and islands, 

Many a harbor-mouth, 
Sailing under palmy highlands 

Far within the South. 
On a day when they were Jjoing 

O er the lone expanse. 
In the North, her canvas flowing. 

Rose a ship of France. 
Then the Captain's color heighten'd 

Joyfnl came his speech : 
But a cloudy gladness lighten'd 

In the eyes of each. 
" Chase," he said : the ship flew forward. 

And the wind did blow : 
Stately, lightly, went she Norward, 

Till she near'd the foe. 
Then they look'd at him they hated. 

Had what they desired : 
Mute with folded arms they waited— 

Not a gun was fired. 
But they heard the foeman's thunder 

Koaring out their doom; 
All the air was torn in sunder, 

Crashing went the boom, 
Spars were splinter'd, decks were shatler'd. 

Bullets fel! like rain ; 
Over roast and deck were scatter'd 

Blood and brains of men. 
Spars were splinter'd: decks were broken: 

Every mother's son — 
Down they dropt— no word was spoken- 
Each beside his gun. 
On the decks as they were lying, 

Were their faces grim. 
In their blood, as they lay dying, 

Did they smile on him. 
Those, in whom he liad reliance 

For his noble name. 
With one smile of still defiance 

Sold him unto shame. 
Shame and wrath his heart confounded, 

Pale he turn'd and red. 



' The fruit of tlie Spindle-tree (,Euont/mu3 Europceus). 



Till himself was deadly wounded 

Falling on the dead. 
Dismal error! fearful slaughter! 

Years have wander'd by. 
Side by side beneath the water 

Crew and Captain lie ; 
There the sunlit ocean tosses 

O'er them mouldering, 
And the lonely scabird crosses 

With one waft of the wing. 



THREE SONNETS TO A COQUETTE. 

Caress'd or chidden by the dainty hand, 

And singing airy trifles this or that, 
Light Hope at Beauty's call would perch and stand, 

And run thro' every change of sharp and flat: 

And Fancy came and at her pillow sat. 
When Sleep had bound her in his rosy band. 

And chased away the still-recurring gnat, 
And woke her with a lay from fairy land. 
But now they live with Beauty less and less. 

For Hope is other Hope and wanders far. 
Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious creeds; 
And Fancy watches in the wilderness. 

Poor Fancy sadder than a single star. 
That sets at twilight in a laud of reeds. 

2. 
The form, the form alone is eloquent ! 
A nobler yearning never broke her rest 
Than but to dance and sing, be gayly drcst, 
And win all e)'es Avith all accomplishment: 
Yet in the waltzing-circle as we went, 
My fancy made me for a moment blest 
To find my heart so near the beauteous breast 
That once had power to rob it of content. 
A moment came the tenderness of tears. 
The phantom of a wish that once could move, 
A ghost of passion that no smiles restore — 
For ah ! the slight coquette, she cannot love, 
And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand years, 

She still would take the praise, and care no 
more. 

3. 
Wan Sculptor, weepest thon to take the cast 
Of those dead lineaments that near thee lie? 

sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the past. 

In painting some dead friend from memory ? 
Weep on : beyond his object Love can last : 

His object lives: more cause to weep have I: 
My tears, no tears of love, are flowing fast. 

No tears of love, but tears that Love can die. 

1 pledge her not in any cheerful cup. 

Nor care to sit beside her where she sits— 
Ah pity— hint it not in human tones, 
But breathe it into earth and close it up 
With secret death forever, in the pits 
Which some green Christmas crams with weary 
bones. 



ON A MOURNER. 

Natuke, so far as in her lies. 
Imitates God, and tnrns her face 

To every land beneath the skies. 
Counts nothing that she meets with base. 
But lives and loves in every place ; 



Fills out the homely quick-set screens, 
And makes the purple lilac ripe, 

Steps from her airy hill, and greens 
The swamp, where hums the dropping snipe, 
With moss and braided marish-pipe ; 



SONGS. — BO ADICEA. 



24'3 



And ou thy heart a fluger lays, 
Saying, "Beat quicker, for the time 

Is pleasant, and the woods and ways 
Are pleasant, and the beech and lime 
Put forth and feel a gladder clime." 

4. 

And murmurs of .'» deeper voice. 
Going before to some far shrine, 

Teach that sick heart the stronger choice, 
Till all thy life one way incline 
With one wide will that closes thine. 



And when the zoning eve has died 
Where yon dark valleys wind forlorn, 

Come Hope and Memory, spouse and bride, 
From out the borders of the morn. 
With that fair child betwixt them boru. 

C. 

And when no mortal motion jars 
The blackness round the tombing sod, 

Thro' silence and the trembling stars 
Comes Faith from tracts no feet have trod, 
And Virtue, like a household god, 



Promising empire ; such as those 
That once at dead of night did , 



Troy's wandering prince, so that he rose 
With sacrifice, while all the fleet 
Had rest by stony hills of Crete. 



SONG. 

Lady, let the rolling drums 
Beat to battle where thy warrior stands: 

Now thy face across his fancy comes, 
And gives the battle to his hands. 

Lady, let the trumpets blow. 
Clasp thy little babes about thy knee : 

Now their warrior father meets the foe-, 
And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 



SONG. 

Home they brought him slain with spears. 

They brought him home at even-fall : 
All alone she sits and hears 

Echoes in his empty hall. 

Sounding on the morrow. 

The Sun peep'd in from open field, 
The boy began to leap and prance, 
Rode upon his father's lance, 

Beat upon his father's shield— 

" O hush, my joy, my sorrow." 



EXPERIMENTS. 
boadic:6a. 

While about the shore of Moua those Nerouian legionaries 
Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and Druidess, 
Far in the east BoiidicOa, standing loftily charioted. 
Mad and maddening all that heard her in her fierce volubility, 
Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the colony Camulodiine. 
Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters o'er a wild confederacy. 

"They that scorn the tribes and call us Britain's barbarous populaces, 
Did they hear me, would they listen, did they pity me supplicating? 
Shall I heed them in their anguish? shall I l3rook to be supplicated? 
Hear Iceuiau, Catieuchlauiau, hear Coritauiau, Trinobant ! 
Must their ever-ravening eagle's beak and talou annihilate ns ? 
Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it gorily quivering? 
Bark an answer, Britain's raven ! bark and blacken innumerable. 
Blacken round the Roman carrion, make the carcass a skeleton. 
Kite and kestrel, wolf and wolfkin, from the wilderness, wallow in it, 
Till the face of Bel be brighten'd, Tarauis be propitiated. 
Lo their colony half-defended! lo their colony, Camulodune ! 
There the horde of Roman robbers mock at a barbarous adversary. 
There the hive of Roman liars worship a gluttonous emperor-idiot 
Such is Rome, and this her deity: hear it, Spirit of Cassivulaim ! 

" Hear it, Gods ! the Gods have heard it, O Iceuian, O Coritanian ! 
Doubt not ye the Gods have auswer'd, Catieuchlauiau, Trinobant. 
These have told us all their anger in miraculous utterances, 
Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a murmur heard aerially. 
Phantom sound of blows descending, moan of an enemy massacred. 
Phantom wail of women and children, multitudinous agonies. 
Bloodily flow'd the Tamesa rolling phantom bodies of horses and mom ; 
Then a phantom colony smoukler'd on the refluent estuary ; 
Lastly yonder yester-even, suddenly giddily tottering — 
There was one who watch'd and told me— down their statue of Victory fe. 
Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo the colony Camulodune, 
Shall we teach it a Roman lesson? shall we care to be pitiful? 
Shall we deal with it as an infant? shall we dandle it amorously? 

"Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Trinobant I 
While I roved about the forest, long and bitterly meditating, 



244 



IN QUANTITY. 



There I heard them in the darkness, at the mystical ceremony, 

Loosely robed in flying raiment, sang the terrible prophetesses. 

'Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle of silvery parapets! 

Tho' the Roman eagle shadow thee, tho' the gathering enemy narrow thee. 

Thou shalt wax and he shall dwindle, thou shalt be tlie mighty one yet' 

Thine the liberty, thine the glory, thine the deeds to be celebrated, 

Thine the myriad-rolling ocean, light and shadow illimitable, 

Thine the lauds of lasting summer, many-blossoming Paradises, 

Thine the North and thine the South and thine the battle-thunder of God,' 

So they chanted: how shall Britain light upon auguries happier? 

So they chanted in the darkness, and there conieth a victory now. 

"Hear Icenian, Catieuchlanian, hear Coritanian, Triuobaut! 
Me the wife of rich Prasutagus, me the lover of liberty, 
Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lash'd and humiliated, 
Me the sport of ribald Veterans, mine of ruffian violators ! 
See they sit, they hide their faces, miserable in ignominy 1 
Wherefore in me burns an anger, not by blood to be satiated. 
Lo the palaces and the temple, lo the colony Camulodiuie '. 
There they ruled, and thence they wasted all the flourishing territory. 
Thither at their will they haled the yellow-ringleted Britoness— 
Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, unexhausted, inexorable. 
Shout Icenian, Catienchlaniau, shout Coritanian, Triuobaut, 
Till the victim hear within and yearn to hurry precipitously 
Like the leaf in a roaring whirlwind, like the smoke in a hurricane whirl'd. 
Lo the colony, there they rioted in the city of Ci'iuobeliue? 
There they drank iu cups of emerald, there at tables of ebony lay. 
Rolling ou their purple couches iu their tender efleminacy. 
There they dwelt and there they rioted ; there— there— they dwell no more. 
Burst the gates, and burn the palaces, break the works of the statuary, 
Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, hold it abominable. 
Cut the Romau boy to pieces in his lust and voluptuousness. 
Lash the maiden into swooning, me they lash'd and humiliated, 
Chop the breasts from off the mother, dash the brains of the little one out, 
Up my Britons, on my chariot, on my chargers, trample them under us." 

So the Queen Boiidicea, standing loftily charioted. 
Brandishing iu her hand a dart and rolling glances lioness-like. 
Yelled and shrieked between her daughters iu her fierce volubility, 
Till her people all around the royal chariot agitated. 
Madly dash'd the darts together, writhing barbarous lineament*. 
Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when they shiver in January, 
Roar'd as wheu the rolling breakers boom and blanch on the precipices, 
Yell'd as when the winds of winter tear an oak on a promontory. 
So the silent colony hearing her tumultuous adversaries 
Clash the darts and on the buckler beat with rapid unanimous hand, 
Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her pitiless avarice. 
Till she felt the heart within her fall and flatter tremulously, 
Then her puises at the clamoring of her enemy fainted away. 
Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny tyranny buds. 
Ran the land with Romau slaughter, multitudinous agonies. 
Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a valorous legionary. 
Fell the colony, city and citadel, Loudon, Verulam, Camulodiino. 



IN QUANTITY. 



Alcaics. 

O MIGHT Y-MorTn'n inventor of harmonies, 
O skiird to sing of Time or Eternity, 
God-gifted organ-voice of England, 

Milton, a name to resound for ages , 
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, 
Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armories. 
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean 

Rings to the roar of an angel onset — 
Me rather all that bowery loneliness, 
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring. 
And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
Charm, as a wanderer out iu ocean. 
Where some refulgent sunset of India 
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, 
And crimson-hued the stately palmwoods 
Whisper in odorous heights of even. 



Hcndecasylla bics. 
O YOU chorus of indolent reviewers, 
Irresponsible, indolent reviewers. 
Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem 
All composed in a metre of Catullus, 
All iu quantity, careful of my motion, 
Like the skater on ice that hardly bears liim, 
Lest I fall unawares before the people, 
Waking laughter iu indolent reviewers. 
Should I flounder awhile without a tumble 
Thro' this metriflcation of Catullus, 
They should speak to me not without a welcome, 
All that chorus of indolent reviewers. 
Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble. 
So fantastical is the dainty metre. 
Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe nic 
Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers. 
O blatant Magazines, regard me rather— 
Since I blush to belaud myself a moment— 
As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost 
Horticultural art, or half coquette-like 
Maiden, not to be greeted uubeuignly. 



ON TRANSLATIONS OF HOMER.— THE VOICE AND THE PEAK. 



24.-) 



SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION OF 
THE ILIAD IN BLANK VERSE. 

So Hector said, aud sea-like roav'd his host; 
Then loosed their sweating horses from the yoke 
Aud each heside his chariot houud his own; 
Aud oxen from the city, aud goodly sheep 
lu haste they drove, and houcy-hearted wiue 
And bread from out the houses brought, aud heap'd 
Their firewood, and the winds from off the plaiu 
Roll'd the rich vapor far into the heaven. 
And these all uight upon the 'bridge of war 
Sat glorying ; many a lire before them blazed ; 
As when iu heaven the stars about the moon 



* Or, ridge. 



Look beautiful, when all the winds are laid, 
Aud every height comes out, and jutting peak 
Aud valley, and the immeasurable heavens 
Break opeu to their highest, and all the stars 
Shine, aud the Shepherd gladdens in his heart: 
So many a lire between the ships and stream 
Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy, 
A thousand on the plain ; and close by each 
Sat fifty iu the blaze of buruing fire ; 
Aud champiug golden grain, the horses stood 
Hard by their chariots, waiting for the dawn.- 

Jliad, viii. 54'2-5Cl 



Or more literally, — 

And eatiiifx lioary prain and pulse, the steeds 
Stood by tlieir cars, waiting tlie tlironed morn. 



ON TRANSLATIONS OF HOMER. 

Hexameters and Pentaynetcrs. 

These lame hexameters the stroug-wing'd music of Homer: 
No— but a most burlesque barbarous experiment. 

When was a harsher sound ever heard, ye Muses, in England ? 
When did a frog coarser croak upon our Helicon ? 

Hexameters no worse than daring Germany gave us, 
Barbarous experiment, barbarous hexameters. 



246 THE NORTHERN FARMER. 



MISCELLANEOUSo 



THE NORTHERN FARMER. 

NEW STYLE. 



Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaiiy? 
Proputty, propiitty, proputty — that 's what I 'ears 'em eaay. 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — Sam, thou 's an ass for thy paaius. 
Theer 's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs uor in all thy braaius. 

II. 

Woii — theer 's a craw to pluck wi' tha, Sam: yon 's parson's 'ouse— 
Dosn't thou knaw that a man muu be eiither a man or a mouse? 
Time to think on it then ; for thou '11 be twenty to weeiik.' 
Proputty, proputty — woii then woa — let ma 'ear myseu speak. 

III. 

Me an' thy muther, Pammy, "as beiiu a-talkiu' o' thee ; 
Thou 's been talkin' to muther, an' she beiiu a telliu' it me. 
Thou '11 not marry for munuy — thou 's sweet upo' parson's lass — 
Noil — thou 'II marry for luvv- an' we boiith on us thinks tha au ass. 

IV. 

Seeii'd her todaiiy £?oii by — Saiiint's-daiiy — thay was ringing the bells. 
She 's a beauty thou thinks — an' soil is scoors o' gells. 
Them as 'as munuy an' all — wot 's a beauty? — the flower as blaw3. 
But proputty, proputty sticks, an' proputty, proputty graws. 

V. 

Do'aut be stunt ;t taiike time: I knaws what maiikes tha sa mad. 
Warn't I craiized fur the lasses myseu when I wur a lad ? 
But I knaw'd a Quaiiker feller as often 'as towd ma this: 
"Doiint thou marry for munny, but goii wheer muuny is!" 

VI. 

Au' I went wheer munny war: an' thy mother coom to 'and, 

Wi' lots o' munny laaid by, an' a nicetish bit o' laud. 

Maiiybe she waru't a beauty: —I niver giv it a thowt — 

But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss as a lass as 'ant uowt? 

VII. 

Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weiiut 'a nowt when 'e 's deiid, 
Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, and addlet her breiid: 
Why? fur 'e 's nobbut a curate, an' weiint uivir git uaw 'ighcr; 
Au' 'e maiide the bed as 'e ligs on al'oor 'e coom'd to the shire. 

VIII. 

And thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots o' 'Varsity debt, 
Stook to his taail they did, an' 'e "ant got shut on 'em yet. 
An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' noiin to leud 'im a shove, 
Woorse nor a far-welter'd§ yowe : fur, Sammy, "e married fur luw. 

IX. 

Luvv ? what "8 luvv ? thou can luvv thy lass au' 'er muuny too, 
Maakin' 'em goii togither as they 've good right to do. 
Could'n I luvv thy muther by cause o' 'cr munny laaid by? 
Naiiy — fur I luvv'd 'er a vast sight moor fur it : reiison why. 



t Obstinate. t Enm. § Or fow-weltcred— said of a sheep lying on its back in tlie (urrow. 



THE VICTIM. 



247 



X. 

Ay, au' thj' muther saj's thou wauts to marry the lass, 
Cooms of a gentlemau bar)i : au' we boiith ou us thiuks tha au a8S. 
Woii then, proputty, wiltha? — an ass as near as mays uowt— * 
Woa theu, wiltlia? daujjtha I — the bees is as fell as owt.t 

XI. 

Brelik me a bit o' the esh for his 'ead, lad, out o' the fence ! 
Gentleman burn ! what 's gentleman bum? is it shillius au' pence? 
Proputty, proputty 's ivrything 'ere, an', Sammy, I 'm blest 
If it is n't the saiime oop youder, fur them as 'as it 's the best. 

XII. 

Tis'u them as 'as munny as breaks into 'ouses an' steiils, 
Them as "as coiits to their backs au' taiikes their regular moiils. 
Noii, but it 's them as niver kuaws wheer a meiil 'a to be 'ad. 
Taake my word for it, Sammy, the poor in a loonip is bad. 

XIII. 

Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a beiin a lai'.zy lot. 

Fur work muu 'a gone to the gittin' whiuiver munuy was got. 

Feyther "ad ammost nowt ; leiistwaays 'is muuny was 'id. 

But 'e tued au' moil'd 'isseu deiid, an "e died a good un, 'e did. 

XIV. 

Look thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck comes out by the 'ill ! 
Feyther run up to the fixrm, au' I runs up to the mill ; 
An' I 11 run up to the brig, au' that thou '11 live to see ; 
And if thou marries a good uu, I '11 leiive the land to thee. 

XV. 

Thim 's my uoiitions, Sammy, wheerby I means to stick ; 
But if thou marries a ba,d un, I '11 leave the land to Dick. — 
Cooni oop, proputty, proputty — that 's what I 'ears 'im Baiiy — 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — canter an' canter awaiiy. 



THE VICTIM. 



A PLAGUE upon the people fell, 

A famine after laid them low, ' 
Then thorpe aud byre arose in fire, 

For ou them brake the sudden foe; 
So thick they died the people cried 

"The Gods are moved against the land. 
The Priest in horror about his altar 
To Thor and Odin lifted a hand : 
"Help us from famine 
And plague and strife ! 
What would you have of us ? 
Human life 1 
Were it our nearest. 
Were it our dearest, 
(Answer, O answer) 
We give you his life." 



But still the foeman spoil'd and buru'd, 

Aud cattle died, and deer in wood. 
And bird in air, and fishes turn'd 

And whiten'd all the rolling flood ; 
Aud dead men lay all over the way. 

Or down in a furrow scathed with flame: 
And ever and aye the Priesthood moan'd 
Till at last it seem'd that an answer came: 
"The King is happy 
In child and wife ; 
Take you his dearest, 
Give us a life." 



The Priest went out by heath and hili; 

The King was hunting in the wild ; 
They found the mother sitting still; 
She cast her arms about the child. 
The child was only eight summers old. 

His beauty still with his years increasedj 
His face was ruddy, his hair was gold, 
He seem'd a victim due to the priest. 
The priest beheld him, 
And cried with joy, 
"The Gods have auswer'd : 
We give them the boy." 



The King rcturu'd from out the wild, 

He bore but little game in hand ; 
The mother said: "They have taken the child 

To spill his blood and heal the land: 
The land is sick, the people diseased, 

And blight and famine on all the lea : 
The holy Gods, they must be appeased, 
So I pray you tell the truth to me. 
They have taken our son. 
They will have his life. 
Is lie your dearest? 
Or I, the wife ?" 



The King bent low, with hand ou brow, 
He stay'd his arms upon his knee: 

"O wife, what use to answer now? 
For now the Priest has judged for me.'" 

■f The flics are as fierce as anything. 



248 



WAGES.— THE HIGHER PANTHEISM.— LUCRETIUS. 



The King was shaken with holy fear ; 

"The Gods," he said, "would have chosen well; 
Yet both are near, aud both are dear, 
And which the dearest I cannot tell 1" 
But the Priest was happy, 
His victim won : 
"We have his dearest, 
His only sou !" 



The rites prepared, the victim bared. 

The knife uprising toward the blow. 
To the altar-stone she sprang alone, 

"Me, not my darling, no!" 
He caught her away with a sudden cry; 

Suddenly from him brake his wife. 
And shrieking "/ am liis dearest, I — 
/ am his dearest 1" rush'd on the knife. 
And the Priest M'as happy, 
"O, Father Odin, 
We give you a life. 
Which was his nearest? 
Who was his dearest ? 
The Gods have answer'd; 
We give them the wife !" 



WAGES. 
Gloey of w^arrior, glory of orator, glory of song, 
Paitl with a voice flying by to be lost on au end- 
less sea — 
Glory of Virtue, tc nght, to struggle, to right the 
wrong — 
Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of glory 
she: 
Give her the glory of going on, and still to be. 

The wages of sin is death : if the wages of Virtue 
be dust. 
Would she have heart to endure for the life of the 
worm and (he fly ? 
She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of 
the just, 
To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a sum- 
mer sky: 
Give her the wages of going on, and not to die. 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM. 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and 

the plains — 
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns ? 

Is not the Vision He ? tho' He be not that which He 

seems ? 
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live 

in dreams ? 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and 

limb. 
Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from 

Him? 

Dr.rk is the world to thee : thyself art the reason 

why ; 
For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel 

"I am I !" 

Glory about thee, without thee : aud thou fulflllest 

thy doom, 
Making Him broken gleams, aud a stifled splendor 

aud gloom. 



Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with 

Spirit can meet — 
Closer is He than breathing, aud nearer than hands 

and feet. 

God is- law, say the wise, O Soul, and let us rejoice. 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His 
voice. 

Law is God, say some : no God at all, says the fool ; 
For all we have power to see is a straight staS bent 
iu a pool ; 

And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of mau 

cannot see ; 
But if we could see and hear, this Vision — were it 

not He ? 



Flowek in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the crannies ; 

Hold you here, root and all, in my hanci. 
Little flower — but if I could i;nderstand 
What you are, root and all, and all in all, 
I should know what God and man is. 



LUCRETIUS. 

LtrciLiA, wedded to Lucretius, found 

Her master cold ; for when the morning flusn 

Of passion and the first embrace had died 

Between them, tho' he loved her none the less, 

Yet often when the woman heard his foot 

Return from pacings in the fleld, and ran 

To greet him with a kiss, the master took 

Small notice, or austerely, for — his mind 

Half buried in some weightier argument, 

Or fancy-borne perhaps upon the rise 

And long roll of the Hexameter — he past 

To turn aud ponder those three hundred scrolls 

Left by the Teacher whom he held divine. 

She brook'd it not; but wrathful, petulant. 

Dreaming some rival, sought and found a witch 

Who brew'd the philter which had power, they isaid 

To lead an errant passion home again. 

And this, at times, she mingled with his drink. 

And this destroy'd him ; for the wicked broth 

Confused the chemic labor of the blood, 

And tickling the brute brain within the man's, 

Made havoc among those tender cells, and check'd 

His power to shape : he loath'd himself, and once 

After a tempest woke upon a morn 

That mock'd him with returning calm, and cried.' 

"Storm in the night! for thrice I heard the ram 
Rushing; and once the flash of a thunderbolt — 
Methought I never saw so fierce a fork — 
Struck out the streaming mountain-side, and show'd 
A riotous confluence of watercourses 
Blanching and billowing in a hollow of it, 
Where all but yester-eve was dusty-dry. 

" Storm, and what dreams, ye holy Gods, what 
dreams ! 
For thrice I wakeu'd after dreams. Perchance 
We do but recollect the dreams that come 
Just ere the waking: terrible! for it secm'd 
A void was made in Nature ; all her bonds 
Crack'd ; and I saw the flaring atom-streams 
And torrents of her myriad universe, 
Ruining along the illimitable inaue, 
Fly on to clash together again, and make 
Another and another frame of things 



LUCRETIUS. 



249 



Forever: that was miue, my dream, I kuevv it 
Of and belonging to me, as the dog 
With inward yelp and restless forefoot plies 
His function of the woodland: but the next! 
I thought that all the blood by Sylla shed 
Came driving raiulike down again on earth, 
And where it dashed the reddening meadow, sprang 
No dragon warriors from Cadmean teeth. 
For these I thought my dream would show to me, 
But girls, Hetairai, curious in their art. 
Hired animalisms, vile as those that made 
The mulberry-faced Dictator's orgies worse 
Than aught they fable of the quiet Gods. 
And bauds they mixt, and yell'd and round me drove 
lu narrowing circles till I yell'd again 
Half suffocated, and sprang np, and saw- 
Was it the first beam of my latest day ? 

"Then, then, from utter gloom stood out the 
breasts. 
The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly a sword 
Now over and now under, nov/ direct. 
Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down shamed 
At all that beauty ; and as I stared, a tire, 
The fire that left a roofless Ilion, 
Shot out of them, and scorch'd me that I woke. 

"Is this thy vengeance, holy Venus, thine, 
Because I would not one of thine own doves, 
Not ev'n a rose, were offer'd to thee ? thine, 
Forgetful how my rich pri)oeniiou makes 
Thy glory fly along the Italian tield, 
lu lays that will outlast thy Deity? 

" Deity ? nay, thy worshippers. My tongue 
Trips, or I speak profanely. Which of these 
Angers thee most, or angers thee at all"? 
Not if thou be'st of those who far aloof 
From envy, bate and pity, and spite and scoru. 
Live the great life which all our greatest fain 
Would follow, centred in eternal calm. 

"Nay, if thou canst, O Goddess, like ourselves 
Touch, and be touched, then would I cry to thee 
To kiss thy Mavors, roll thy tender arms 
Round him, and keep him from the lust of Tilood 
That makes a steaming slaughter-house of Rome. 

"Ay, but I meant not thee; I meant not her, 
Whom all the pines of Ida shook to see 
Slide from that quiet heaven of hers, and tempt 
The Trojan, while his neat-herds were abroad; 
Nor her that o'er her wounded hunter wept 
Her Deity false in human-amorous tears ; 
Nor whom her bearci.ess apple-ai biter 
Decided fairest. Rather, O ye Gods, 
Poet-like, as the great Sicilian called 
Calliope to grace his golden verse — 
Ay, and this Kypris also — did I take 
That popular name of thine to shadow forth 
The all-generating powers and genial heat 
Of Nature, when she strikes through the thick blood 
Of cattle, and light is large and lambs are glad 
Nosing the mother's udder, and the bird 
Makes his heart voice amid the blaze of flowers 
Which things appear the work of mighty Gods. 

"The Gods! and if T go mi/ work is left 
rnfluish'd — ?/ I go. The Gods, who haunt 
The lucid interspace of world and world, 
Where never creeps a cloud, or moves a wind. 
Nor ever .''alls the least white star of snow. 
Nor ever lowest roll of thunder moans. 
Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to mar 
Their sacred everlasting calm ! and such. 
Not all so fine, nor so divine a calm. 
Not such, nor all unlike it, man may gain 
Letting his own life go. The Gods, the Gods! 



If all be atoms, how then should the Gods 

Being atomic not be dissoluble, 

Not follow the great law ? My master held 

That Gods there are, for all men so believe. 

I press'd my footsteps into his, and meant 

Surely to lead my Memmius in a train 

Of flowery clauses onward to the proof 

That Gods there are, and deathless. Meant ? I 

meant ? 
I have forgotten what I meant: my mind 
Stumbles, and all my faculties are lamed. 

"Look where another of our Gods, the Sun, 
Apollo, Delius, or of older use 
All-seeing Hyperion- what you will- 
Has mounted yonder ; since he never sware. 
Except his wrath were wreak'd on Avretched man. 
That he would only shine among the dead 
Hereailter ; tales ! for never yet on earth 
Could dead flesh creep, or bits of roasting ox 
Moan round the spit — nor knows he what he sees; 
King of the East altho' he seem, and girt 
With song and flame and fragrance, slowly lifts 
His golden feet on those empurpled stairs 
That climb into the windy halls of heaven* 
And here he glances on an eye new-born, 
Aud gets for greeting but a wail of pain ; 
And here he stays upon a freezing orb 
That fain would gaze upon him to the last: 
And here upon a yellow eyelid fall'u 
And closed by those who mourn a friend in vain. 
Not thankful that his troubles are no mtn-e. 
And me, altho' his fire is on my face 
Blinding, he sees not, nor at all can tell 
Whether I mean this day to end myself, 
Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, 
That men like soldiers may not quit the post 
Allotted by the Gods: but he that holds 
The Gods are careless, wherefore need he care 
Greatly for them, nor rather plunge at once, 
Being'troubled, wholly out of sight, and sink 
Past earthquake — ay, aud gout aud stone, that break 
Body toward death, and palsy, death-in-life, 
And wretched age — aud worst disease of all, 
Those prodigies of myriad nakednesses, 
Aud twisted shapes of lust, unspeakable, 
Abominable, strangers at my hearth 
Not welcome, har))ies miring every dish, 
The phantom husks of something foully done, 
And fleeting through the boundless universe, 
And blasting the long quiet of my breast 
With animal heat and dire insanity. 

"How should the mind, except it loved them, clasp 
These idols to herself? or do they fly 
Now thinner, and now thicker, like the flakes 
In a fall of snow, and so press in, perforce 
Of multitude, as crowds that In an hour 
Of civic tumult jam the doors, and bear 
The keepers down, aud throng, their rags and they, 
The basest, fiir into that council-hall 
Where sit the best and stateliest of the land? 

"Can I not fling this horror off me again. 
Seeing with how great ease Nature can smile, 
Balmier aud nobler from her bath of storm, 
At random ravage ? and how easily 
The mountain there has cast his cloudy slough. 
Now towering o'er him in serenest air, 
A mountain o'er a mountain, ay, and within 
All hollow as the hopes and fears of men. 

"But who was he, that in the garden snared 
Picus and Faunus, rustic Gods? a tale 
To laugh at — more to laugh at in myself— 
For look! what is it? there? yon arbutus 
Totters : a noiseless riot underneath 
Strikes through the wood, sets all the tops quiver- 
ing- 



250 



THE VOICE AND THE PEAK. 



The mountain quickens into Nymph and Faun; 

And here an Oread — how the sun delights 

To glance and shift about her slippery sides, 

And rosy knees and supple roundeduess, 

And budded bosom-peaks — who this way runs 

Before the rest — A satyr, a satyr, see — 

Follows; but him I proved impossible; 

Twy-natured is no nature; yet he draws 

Nearer and nearer, and I scan him now 

Beastlier than any phantom ot his kind 

That ever bntted his rough brother-brute 

For lust or lusty blood or provender : 

I hate, abhor, spit, sicken at him ; and she 

Loathes him as well; such a precipitate heel, 

Fledged as it were with Mercury's anklc-wiug, 

Whirls her to me: but will she fling herself, 

Shameless upou me? Catch her, goatfoct: nay, 

Hide, hide them, miliion-myrtled wilderness. 

And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide! do I wish — 

What? — that the bush were leafless? or to whelm 

All of them in one massacre? O ye Gods, 

I know you careless, yet, behold, to you 

From childly wont and ancient use I call — 

I thought I lived securely as yourselves — 

No lewdness, narrowing envy, monkey-spite, 

No madness of ambition, avarice, none : 

No larger feast that under plane or pine 

With neighbors laid along the grass, to take 

Only such cups as left us friendly warm. 

Affirming each his own philosophy — 

Nothing to mar the sober majesties 

Of settled, sweet. Epicurean life. 

But now it seems some unseen monster lays 

His vast and filthy hands upon my will, 

Wrenching it backward iuto his ; and spoils 

My bliss in being; and it was not great; 

For save when shutting reasons up in rhythm, 

Or Heliconian honey in living words. 

To make a truth less harsh, 1 often grew 

Tired of so much within our little life. 

Or of so little in our little life — 

Poor little life that toddles half an hour 

Crown'd with a flower or two, and there an end — 

And since the nobler pleasure seems to fade, 

Why should I, beastlike as I find myself, 

Not manlike end myself? — our privilege — 

What beast has heart to do it? And what man. 

What Roman would be dragged in triumph thus? 

Not I ; not he, who bears one name with her. 

Whose death-blow struck the dateless doom of kings, 

When brooking not the Tarquiu in her veins, 

She made her blood in sight of Collatine 

And all his peers, flushing the guiltless air. 

Spout from the maiden fountain in her heart. 

And from it sprang the Commonwealth, which breaks 

As I am breaking now! 

"And therefore now 
Let her, that is the xvomb and tomb of all. 
Great Nature, take, and lorcing far apart 
Tiiose blind beginnings that liave made me man. 
Dash them anew togetlicr at her will 
Through all her cycles — into man once more 
Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent flower — 
But till this cosmic order everywhere 
Shattcr'd iuto one earthquake in one day 
Cracks all to pieces, -and that hour perhaps 
Is not so far when momentary man 
Shall seem no more a something to himself. 
But he, his hopes and hates, his homes and fanes. 
And even his bones long laid within the grave, 
The very sides of the grave itself shall pass, 
Vanishing, atom and void, atom and void. 
Into the unseen forever, — till that hour. 
My golden work in which I told a truth 
Thac stays the rolling Ixiouian wheel. 
And numbs the Fury's ringlet-suakc, and plucks 
The mortal soul from out immortal hell, 



Shall stand : ay, surely : then it fails at last. 

And perishes as I must; for O Thou, 

Passionless t)ride, divine Tranquillity, 

Yearned after by the wisest of the wise, 

Who fail to find thee, being as thou art 

Without one pleasure and without one pain, 

Howbeit I know thou surely must be mine 

Or soon or late, yet out of season, thus 

I woo thee roughly, for thou carest not 

How roughly men may woo thee so they win — 

Thus — thus: the soul flies out and dies in the air. 

With that he drove the knife into his side: 
She heard him raging, heard him fall: ran in, 
Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon lierselt 
As having failed in duty to him, shriek'd 
That she but meant to win him back, fell on hiiu, 
Clasp'd, kiss'd him, wail'd: he answer'd, "Caie not 

thou 
What matters? All is over: Fare thee well!" 



THE VOICE AND THE PEAK, 

TuE voice and the Peak 

Far over summit and lawn. 
The lone glow and long roar 

Green-rushing from the rosy thrones of dawn ! 

All night have I heard the voice 

Rave over the rocky bar. 
But thou wert silent in heaven, 

Above thee glided the star. 

Hast thou no voice, O Peak, 

That standest high above all ? 
"I am the voice of the Peak, 

I roar and rave for I fall. 

"A thousand voices go 

To North, South, East, and West; 
They leave the heights and are troubled, 

Ancl moan and sink to their rest. 

" The fields are fair beside them. 
The chestnut towers in his bloom; 

But they— they feel the desire of the deep- 
Fall, and follow their doom. 

"The deep has power on the heiglit. 
And the height has power on the deep; 

They are raised for ever and ever. 
And sink again into sleep." 

Not raised for ever and ever. 

But when their cycle is o'er. 
The valley, the voice, tlie peak, the star 

Pass and are found no more. 

The Peak is high and flush'd 

At his higliest with sunrise fire; 
The peak is higli, and the stars are high. 

And the thought of a man is higher. 

A voice below the voice. 

And a height beyond the height ! 
Our hearing is not hearing. 

And our seeing is not sight. 

The voice and the Peak 

Far into heaven withdrawn. 
The lone glow and long roar 

Green-rushing from the rosy tliroues of dawn I 



THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF EDINBURGH.— CHILD SONGS. 



251 



THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF EDIN- 
BURGH. 
I. 

The Son of him with whom we strove for power— 
Whose will is lord thro' nil his world-domiiin — 
Who made the serf a mau, and burst his chaiu — 

lias given our Priuce his own Imperial Flower, 

Alexaudrovua. 

And welcome, Russian flower, a people's pride, 
To Britain, when her flowers begin to blow! 
From love to love, from home to home you go, 

From mother unto mother, stately bride, 

Marie- Alexaudrovua. 

II. 

The golden news along the stejipes is blown, 
And at thy name the Tartar tents are stirred ; 
Elbiirz and all the Caucasus have heard ; 

And all the sultry palms of India known, 

Alexandrovna. 

The voices of our universal sea, 
On capes of Afric as on cliffs of Kent, 
The Maoris and that Isle of Continent, 

And loyal pines of Canada murmur thee, 

Marie-Alexandrovna ! 

III. 

Fair empires branching, both, in lusty life ! — 

Yet Harold's Kngland fell to Norman swords; 

Yet thine own land has bow'd to Tartar hordes 
Since English Harold gave its throne a wife, 

Alexandrovna ! 
For thrones and peoples are as waifs that swing, 

And float or fall, iu endless el)b and flow; 

But who love best have best the grace to know 
That Love by right divine is deathless king, 

Marie- Alexandrovna ! 

IV. 

And love has led thee to the stranger land. 
Where men are bold and strongly say their say ; — 
See empire upon empire smiles to-day. 

As thou with thy young lover hand in hand, 

Alexandrovna ! 

So now thy fuller life is in the West, 
Whose hand at home was gracious to thy poor: 
Thy name was blest within the narrow door ; 

Here, also, Marie, shall thy name be blest, 

Marie-Alexandrovna ! 



Shall fears and jealous hatreds flame again? 
Or at thy coming. Princess, everywhere. 
The blue heaven break, and some diviner air 
Breathe thro' the world and change the hearts of 
men, 

Alexandrovna? 

But hearts that change not, love that cannot cease. 
And peace be yours, the peace of soul iu soul ! 
And howsoever this wild world may roll, 

Between your peoples truth and manful peace, 

Alfred — Alexandrovna ! 



IN THE GARDEN AT SWAINSTON. 

Nightingales warbled without — 
Within was weeping for thee; 

Shadows of three dead men 
Walked in the walks with me ; 

Shadows of three dead men. 
And thou wast one of the three. 

Nightingales sang in the woods — 

'The master was far away; 
Nightingales warbled and sang 

Of a passion that lasts but a day ; 
Still in the house in his coflin 

The priuce of courtesy lay. 

Two dead men have I known 

In courtesy like to thee ; 
Two dead men have I loved 

With a love that ever will be; 
Three dead men have I loved, 

And thou art last of the three. 



CHILD-SONGS. 

THE CITY CHILD. 

Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander? 

Whither from this pretty home, the home where 
mother dwells? 
"Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden, 
" All among the gardens, auriculas, anemones, 

Roses and lilies and Canterbury-bells." 

Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander? 

Whither from this pretty house, this city-house of 
ours? 
"Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden, 
" All among the meadows, the clover and the clematis, 

Daisies and kingcups and honeysuckle-flowers." 

MINNIE AND WINNIE. 

Minnie and Winnie 

Slept in a shell. 
Sleep, little ladies I 

And they slept well. 

Pink was the shell within, 

Silver without ; 
Sounds of the great sea 

Wander'd about. 

Sleep, little ladies I 

Wake not soon ! 
Echo on echo 

Dies to the moon. 

Two bright star.9 

Peep'd into the shell. 
"What are they dreaming of? 

Wlio can tell ?" 

Started a green linnet 

Out of the croft ; 
Wake, little ladies. 

The suu is aloft 1 



252 



THE WINDOW ; OR, THE SONGS OF THE WRENS. 



THE WINDOW; 

OR, 

THK SON as OF THK \S^ R E N S. 



Four years apo Mr. Sullivan requestt^d me to write a little song-cycle, German fashion, for him to exercise his art upon. Me had been very 
successful in setting such old songs as *' Orpheus with his lute," and I drest up for him, partly in the old style, a puppet whose almost only 
merit is, perhaps, that it can dance to Mr. Sullivan's instrument. I am sorry that my four-year-old puppet should have to dance at all in the 
dark shadow of these days ; but the music is now completed, and I am bound by iiu- nromise. A. Tknnyson. 

December, 1870. , 



ON THE HILL. 

The lights and sliadows fly ! 
Vonder it brightens and darkens down on the plain. 

A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover's eye! 
O is it the brook, or a pool, or her window-pane, 
When the winds are up in the morning? 

Clouds that are racing above, 
And winds and lights and shadows that cannot be 
still. 
All running on one way to the home of my love, 
You are all running on, and I stand on the slope of 
the hill. 
And the winds are up in the morning I 

Follow, follow the chase ! 
And my thoughts are as quick and as quick, ever on, 
on, on. $ 

O lights, are you flying over her sweet little face? 
And my heart is there before you arc come and gone, 
When the winds are up in the morning ! 

Follow them down the slope! 
And I foll-ow them down to the window-pane of my 
dear, 
And it brightens and darkens and brightens like 
my hope, 
And it darkens and brightens and darkens like my 
fear. 
And the winds are up in the morning. 



AT THE WINDOW. 

Vine, vine and eglantine, 
Clasp her window, trail and twine! 
Rose, rose and clematis. 
Trail and twine and clasp and kiss. 
Kiss, kiss ; and make her a bower 
All of flowers, and drop me a flower, 
Drop me a flower. 

Vine, vine and eglantine. 
Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine? 
Rose, rose and clematis. 
Drop me a flower, a flower, to kiss, 
Kiss, kiss — And out of her bower 
All of flowers, a flower, a flower, 
Dropt, a flower. 



GONE! 
Gone ! 

Gone till the end of the year. 
Gone, and the light gone with her and left me in 
shadow here! 



Gone— flitted away. 
Taken the stars from the night and the sun from 

the day! 
Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a storm in the 

air! 
Flown to the east or the west, flitted I know not 

where ! 
Down in the south is a flash and a groan: she is 

there! she i3 there! 



WINTER. 

The frost is here, 

And fuel is dear 

And woods are sear. 

And fires burn clear, 

And frost is here 

And has bitten the heel of the going year. 

Bite, frost, bite ! 

You roll up away from the light 
The blue woodlonse, and the plump dormouse. 
And the bees are still'd, and the flies are kill'd, 
And you bite far into the heart of the nouse. 
But not into mine- 
Bite, frost, bite! 
Tlie woods are all the searer. 
The fuel is all the dearer. 
The flres are all the clearer. 
My spring is all the nearer, 
You have bitten into the heart of the earth, 
But not into mine. 



SPRING. 

Biuns' love and birds' song 

Flying here and there, 
Birds' song and birds' love, 

And you with gold for hair 1 
Birds' song and birds' love, 

Passing with the weather, 
Men's song and men's love, 

To love once and for ever. 

Men's hive and birds' love, 

And women's love and men's ; 
And you my wren with a crown of gold. 

You my Queen of the wrens ! 
You the Queen of the wrens— 

We'll be birds of a feather, 
I'll be King of the Queen of the wrens. 

And all iu a nest together. 



TPIE WINDOW ; OR, THE SONGS OF THE WRENS. 



THE LETTER. 

WiiKRi'; is anotlier sweet as my sweet, 
Fine of tlie flue, and shy of the shy? 

Fine little hands, line little feet- 
Dewy blue eye. 

Shall I write to her? shall I go? 
Ask her to marry nie by and by? 

Somebody said that she'd say no; 
Somebody knows that she'll say ay ! 

Ay or no, if ask'd to her face? 

Ay or no, from shy of the shy ? 
Go, little letter, apace, apace. 

Fly! 
Fly to the light in the valley below — 

Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye: 
Somebody said that she'd say no ; 

Somebody knows that she'll say ay I 



NO ANSWER. 

TuK mist and the rain, the mist and the rain ! 

Is it ay or no? is it ay or no? 
And never a glimpse of her window-pane ! 

And I may die but the grass will grow, 
And the grass will grow when I am gone. 
And the wet west wind and the world will go on. 

Ay is the song of the wedded spheres, 

No is trouble and chrad and storm. 
Ay is life for a hundred years. 

No will push me down to the worm. 
And when I am there and dead and gone. 
The wet west wind and the world will go on. 

The wind and the wet, the wind and the wet I 
Wet west wind, how you blow, you blow ! 

And never a line from my lady yet ! 
Is it ay or no? is it ay or no? 

Blow then, blow, and when I am gone, 

The wet west wind and the world may go on. 



NO ANSWER. 

Winds are loud and you are dumb: 
Take my love, for love will come, 

Love will come but once a life. 
Winds are loud and winds will pass! 
Spring is here with leaf and grass: 

Take my love and be my wife. 
After-loves of maids and men 
Are but dainties drest again : 
Love me now, you'll love me then: 

Love can love but once a life. 



THE ANSWER. 

Two little hands that meet, 
Claspt on her seal, my sweet ! 
Must I take you and break yon, 
Two little hands that meet? 
I must take you, and break you, 
And loving hands must part- 
Take, take— break, break- 
Break— you may break my heart. 
Faint heart never won — 
iJreak, break, and all's done. 



AY! 

Bi: merry, all birds, to-day. 

Be merry on earth as y(ju never were merry before 
Be merry in heaven, O larks, and far awaj'. 
And merry for ever and ever, and one dav more. 
Why? 
For it's easy to lind a rhyme. 

Look, look, how he flits. 
The flre-crown'd king of the wrens, from out of 
the pine ! 
Look how they tumble the blossom, the mad little tits ! 
"•Cuck-ool Cuck-oo!" was ever a May so fine? 
Why? 
For it's easy to find a rhyme. 

O merry the linnet and dove, 

And swallow and sparrow and throstle, and have 
your desire ! 
O merry my heart, you have gotten the wings of love, 

And flit like the king of the wrens with a crown 

of fi'e- „„ „ 

Why? 

For it's ay ay ay, ay ay. 



WHEN? 

StTN comes, moon comes. 

Time slips away. 
Sun sets, moon sets. 

Love, fix a day. 

"A year hence, a year hence." 
"We shall both be gray." 

"A month hence, a month hence. 
"Far, far away." 

"A week hence, a weeli hence." 

"Ah, the long delay." 
"Wait a little, wait a little, 

You shall fix a day." 

" To-morrow, love, to-morrow. 
And that's an age away." 

Blaze upon her window, sun, 
And honour all the day. 



MARRIAGE MORNING. 

LiouT, so low upon earth. 

Yon send a flash to the sun. 
Here is the golden close of love, 

All my wooing is done. 
O the woods and the meadows. 

Woods where ^ve hid from the wet, 
Stiles where we stay'd to be kind, 

Meadows in which we met ! 
Light, so low in the vale. 

You flash and lighten afar: 
For this is the golden morning of love. 

And you are his morning star. 
Flash, I am coming, I come. 

By meadow and style and wood : 
O lighten into my eyes and my heart. 

Into my heart and my blood ! 
Heart, are you great enough 

For a love that never tires ? 
O heart, are you great enough for love ? 

I have heard of thorns and briers. 
Over the thorns and briers, 

Over the meadows and stiles, 
Over the world to the end of it 

Flash for a million miles. 



254 



TIMBUCTOO. 



DISCARDED POEMS. 



[This division inclnd08 early and occasional pooms, omitted by Mr. Tennyson from his collected works. A few have been replaced by him 
iu his later editions. With these exceptions, these poems are printed exclusively in this edition.] 



TIMBUCTOO.* 

"Deep in that lion-haunted inland lies 
A mystic city, goal of high emprise."— Chapman. 

I STOOD upon the Mountain which o'erlooks 

The narrow seas, whose rapid interval 

Parts Afric from green Europe, when the Suu 

Had fall'u below th' Atlantic, and above 

The silent heavens were blench'd with faery light, 

Uncertain whether faery light or cloud. 

Flowing Southward, and the chasms of deep, deep 

blue 
Slumber'd unfi\thomable, and the stars 
Were flooded over with clear glory and pale. 
I gazed upon the sheeny coast beyond, 
There where the Giant of old Time inlix'd 
The limits of his prowess, pillars high 
Long time erased from earth: even as the Sea 
When weary of Avild inroad buildeth np 
Huge mounds whereby to stay his yeasty waves. 
And much I mused on legends quaint and old 
Which whilome won the hearts of all on earth 
Toward their brightness, ev'n as flame draws air; 
But had their being in the heai't of men 
As air is th' life of flame; and thou wert then 
A ceuter'd glory-circled memory, 
Diviuest Atalautis, whom the waves' 
Have buried deep, and thou of later name. 
Imperial Eldorado, roof'd with gold: 
Shadows to which, despite all shocks of change, 
All on-set of capricious accident, 
Men clung with yearning hope which would not die. 
As when in some great city where the walls 
Shake, and the streets with ghastly faces thronged. 
Do utter forth a subterranean voice, 
i'jnong the inner columns far retired 
At midnight, in the lone Acropolis, 
Before the awful genius of the place 
Kneels the pale Priestess in deep liiith, the while 
Above her head the weak lamp dips and winks 
Unto the fearful summoning without; 
Nathless she ever clasps the marble knees. 
Bathes the cold hand with tears, and gazeth on 
Those eyes which wear no light but that wherewith 
Her phantasy informs them. 

Whei'e are ye. 
Thrones of the Western wave, fair Islands green? 
Where are your moonlight halls, your cedarn glooms. 
The blossoming abysses of your hills? 
Your flowering capes, and your gold-sanded bays 
Blown round with happy airs of odorous winds? 
Where are the influite ways, which, seraph-trod, 
Wound through your great Elysian solitudes. 
Whose lowest deeps were, as with visible love. 
Filled with Divine eft'ulgence, circumfused, 
Flowing between the clear and polished stems. 
And ever circling round their emerald cones 
)n coronals and glories, such as gird 
The unfading foreheads of the Saints in Heaven? 
For nothing visible, they say, had birth 
In that blest ground, but it was played about 
With its peculiar glory. Then I raised 
My voice and cried, "Wide Afric, doth thy Suu 
Lighten, thy hills enfold a city as fair 



• A Poem which obtained the Chancellor's Medal at the Cambridge 
Commencement, MDCCCXXIX. By A. Tennyson, of Trinity Cul- 
lese. 



As those which starred the night o' the elder world" 

Or is the rumor of thy Timbuctoo 

A dream as frail as those of ancient time?" 

A curve of whitening, flashing, ebbing light ! 
A rustling of white wings ! the bright descent 
Of a young Seraph ! and he stood beside me 
There on the ridge, and looked into my face 
With his unutterable, shining orbs, 
So that with hasty motion I did veil 
My vision with both hands, and saw before me 
Such colored spots as dance athwart the eyes 
Of those that gaze upon the noonday Suu. 
Girt with a zone of flashing gold beneath 
His breast, and compassed round about his brow 
With triple arch of everchauging bows. 
And circled with the glory of living light 
And alternation of all hues, he stood. 

"O child of man, why muse yon here alone 
Upon the Monutain, on the dreams of old 
Which filled the earth with passing loveliness, 
AVhich fluug stsauge music on the howling winds, 
And odors rapt from remote Paradise? 
Thy sense is clogged with dull mortality: 
Open thine eyes and see." 

I looked, but not 
Upon his face, for it was wonderl'ul 
With its exceeding brightness, and the light 
Of the great Angel Mind Avhich looked from OttJ 
The starry glowing of his restless eyes. 
I felt my soul grow mighty, and my spirit 
With supernatural excitation bound 
Within me, and my mental eye grew large 
With such a vast circumfereuce of thought, 
That in my vanity I seemed to stand 
TTpon the outward verge and bound alone 
Of full beatitude. Each failing sense. 
As with a momentary flash of light. 
Grew thrillingly distinct and keen. I saw 
The smallest grain that dapjiled the dark earth, 
The indistinctest atom in deep air, 
The Moon's white cities, and the opal width 
Of her small glowing lakes, her silver heights 
Unvisited with dew of vagrant cloud. 
And the unsounded, undescended depth 
Of her black hollows. The clear galaxy 
Shorn of its hoary lustre, wonderful. 
Distinct and vivid with sharp points of light, 
Blaze within blaze, an unimngined depth 
And harmony of planet-girded suns 
And moon-encircled planets, wheel in wheel, 
Arched the wan sapphire. Nay — the hum of men 
Or other things talking in unknown timgues. 
And notes of busy life in distant worlds 
Beat like a far wave on my anxious ear. 

A maze of piercing, trackless, thrilling thoughts, 
Involving and embracing each with each, 
Rapid as fire, inextricably linked. 
Expanding momently with every sight 
And sound which struck the palpitating sense. 
The issue of strong impulse, hurried through 
The riven rapt brain ; as when in some large lake 
From pressure of descendant crags, which lapse 
Disjointed, crumbling from their parent slope 
At slender interval, the level calm 
Is ridged with restless and increasing spheres 
Which break upon each other, each th' efi"ect 
Of separate impulse, but more fleet and strong 



TIMBUCTOO. 



Tliau its precursor, till tlie eye in vaiu 
Amid the wild unrest of swimming sluule 
Dappled with hollow and alternate rise 
Of iuterpeuetnited arc, would scan 
Deflnite round. 

I know not if I shape 
These things with accurate similitude 
From visible objects, for but dimly now, 
Less vivid than a half-forgotteu dream, 
The memory of that mental excellence 
Comes o'er me, and it may be I entwine 
The indecision of my present mind 
With its past clearness, yet it seems to me 
As even then the torrent of quick thought 
Absorbed me from the nature of itself 
With its own fleetness. Where is he, that borne 
Adown the sloping of an arrowy stream, 
Could link his shalop to the fleeting edge. 
And muse midway with philosophic calm 
Upon the wondrous laws which regulate 
The tierceness of the bounding element ? 

My thoughts which long had grovelled in the sl!me 
Of this dull world, like dusky worms which house 
Beneath nnshalveu waters, but at once 
[Jpou some earth-awakeuing day of Sijring 
Do pass from gloom to glory, and aloft 
Winnow the purple, bearing on both sides 
Double display of star-lit wings, which burn 
Fan-like and tibred with intensest bloom ; 
Even so my thoughts erewhile so low, now felt 
Unutterable buoyancy and strength 
To bear them upward through the trackless fields 
l.if undetiued existence far and free. 

Then first within the South methought 1 saw 
A wilderness of spires, and crystal pile 
Of rampart upon raiupart, dome on dome, 
Illimitable range of battlement 
On battlement, and the Imperial height 
Of canopy o'ercanopied. 

Behind 
In diamond light up spring the dazzling peaks 
Of Pyramids, as far surpassing earth's 
As heaven than earth is fairer. Each aloft 
Upon his narrowed eminence bore globes 
Of wheeling suns, or stars, or semblances 
Of either, showering circular abyss 
Of radiance. But the glory of the place 
Stood out a pillared front of burnished gold, 
Interminably high, if gold it were 
Or metal more ethereal, and beneath 
Two doors of blinding brilliance, where no gaze 
Might rest, stood open, and the eye could scan, 
Through length of porch and valve and boundless 

hall. 
Part of a throne of fiery flame, whcrefrom 
The snowy skirting of a garment hung, 
And glimpse of multitude of multitudes 
That ministered around it — if I saw 
These things distinctly, for my human brain 
Staggered beneath the vision, and thick night 
Came down upon my eyelids, and I fell. 

With ministering hand he raised me up: 
Then with a mournful and ineffable smile. 
Which but to look on for a moment filled 
]7 



My eyes with irresistible sweet tears, 

lu accents of majestic melody. 

Like a swoln river's gushings in still night 

Mingled with floating music, thus he spake: 

"There is no mightier Spirit than I to sway 
The heart of man ; and teach him to attain 
By shadowing forth the Unattainable ; 
And step by step to scale that mighty stair 
Whose landing-place is wrapt about w-ith clouds 
Of glory of heaven.* With earliest light of Spring, 
And in the glow of sallow Summertide, 
And in red Autumn when the winds are wild 
With gambols, and when fnll-voiced Winter roofe 
The headland with inviolate white snow, 
I play about his heart a thousand ways, 
Visit his eyes with visions, and his ears 
With harmonies of wind and wave and wood, 
— Of winds which tell of waters, and of waters 
Betraying the close kisses of the wind — 
And win him unto me : and few there l)e 
So gross of heart who have not felt and kuowii 
A higher than they see: they with dim eyes 
Behold me darkling. Lo ! I have given thee 
To understand my presence, and to feel 
My fullness: I have filled thy lips with power. 
I have raised thee nighcr to the spheres of heaven, 
Man's first, last home : and thou with ravished sense 
Listenest the lordly mysic flowing from 
The illimitable years. I am the Spirit, 
The permeating life which courseth through 
All th' intricate and labyrinthine veins 
Of the great vine of Fable, which, outspi'cad 
With growth of shadowing leaf and clusters rar<?, 
Rcacheth to every corner under heaven, 
Deep-rooted in the living soil of truth ; 
So that men's hopes and fears take refnge in 
The fragrance of its complicated glooms. 
And cool impleached twilights. Child of man, 
Seest thou yon river, whose translucent wave, 
Forth issuing from the darkness, w'indeth through 
The argent streets o' the city, imaging 
The soft inversion of her tremulous domes, 
Her gardens frequent with the stately palm, 
Her pagods hung with music of sweet bells, 
Her obelisks of ranged chrysolite, 
Minarets and towers? Lo ! how he passeth by, 
And gnlphs himself in sands, as not enduring 
To carry through the world those waves, which bore 
The reflex of my city in their depths. 
Oh city: oh latest throne! where I was raised 
To be a mystery of loveliness 
Unto all eyes, the time is well-nigh come 
When I must render up this glorious home 
To keen Discovery; soon you brilliant towers 
Shall darken with the waving of her wand; 
Darken and shrink and shiver into huts, 
Black specks amid a w\aste of dreary sand. 
Low-built, mud-walled, barbarian settlements. 
How changed from this fair city 1" 

Tl us far the Spirit . 
Then parted heaven-ward on the wing: ;\ud I 
Was left alone on Calpe, and the moon 
Had fallen from the night, and all was dark! 



ye i)triett, even as jour father in heaven is perfect." 




•256 



ELEGIACS.— THE "HOW" AND THE "WHY." 



POEMS PUBLISHED IN THE EDITION OF 1830, 
AND OMITTED IN LATER EDITIONS. 



ELEGIACS. 

LowFLOwiNO breezes are roaming the broad valley 

dimnieil in the iiloming: 
Thro' the blackstemmed pines only the far river 

shines. 
Creeping through blossomy rashes and bowers of 

roseblowiug bushes, 
Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble and fall. 
Barketh the sliepherd-dog cheerly ; the grasshojiper 

carolleth clearly ; 
Deeply the turtle coos ; shrilly the owlet halloos; 
Winds creep: dews fall chilly: in her first sleep 

earth breathes stilly : 
Over the pools iu the burn watergnats murmur and 

mourn. 
Sadly the far kine loweth: *the glimmering water 

outfloweth : 
Twin peaks shadowed with pine slope to the dark 

hyaline. 
Lowthroned Ilesper is stayed between the two 

peaks ; but the Naiad 
Throbbing in wild unrest holds him beneath iu her 

breast. 
The ancient poetess singcth that Hesperus all things 

bringeth, 
Smoothing the wearied mind: bring me my love, 

Rosalind. 
Thou couiest morning and even; she comcth not 

morning or even. 
False-eyed llesper, unkind, where is my sweet Ro- 
salind? 



THE "IIOW" AND THE "WHY," 

9 
I AJi any man's suitor, 
If any will be my tutor: 
Some say this life is pleasant, 
Some think it speedeth fast, 
In time there is no present, 
In etsrnity nc future, 
In eternity no past. 
We laugh, we cry, we are born, we die, 
Who will riddle mc the how and the ivhijf 

The bulrush nods unto its brother. 

The wheatears whisper to each other: 

What is it they say? what do they there? 

Why two and two make four? why round is not 

square ? 
Why the rock stands still, and the light clouds fly? 
Why the heavy oak groans, and the white willows 

sigh ? 
Why deep is not high, and high is not deep? 
Wliether we wake, or whether we sleep ? 
Whether we sleep, or whether we die ? 
How you are you? why I am I? 
Who will riddle me the hoiv and the ivhij? 

The world is somewhat; it goes on somehow: 
But what is the meaning of then and now? 

I feel there is something; but how and what? 
I know there is somewhat : but what and why ? 
I cannot tell it that somewhat be I. 



The little bird pipeth — "why? why?" 
In the summer woods when the sun falls low. 
And the great bird sits ou the opposite bough. 
And stares iu his face, and shouts "how? how?" 
And the black owl scuds do^vn the mellow twilight, 
And chants "how? how?" the whole cf the night. 

Why the life goes when the blood is spilt? 

What the life is? where the soul may lie? 
Why a church is with a steeple built: 
And a honse with a chimney-pot ? 
Who will riddle me the how and the what? 

Who will riddle me the what and the why? 



SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS 

OF A SECOXU-KATE SENSITIVE MIND NOT IN 
UNITY WITH ITSELF. 

On God! my God! have mercy now. 

I faint, I fall. Men say that thou 

Didst die for me, for such as me. 

Patient of ill, and death, and scorn, 

Aud that my sin was as a thorn 

Among the thorns that girt thy brow. 

Wounding thy soul. —That even uow, 

In this extremest misery 

Of ignorance, I should require 

A sign ! and if a bolt of fire 

Would rive the slumbrous summer uoon 

While I do pray to thee alone, 

Think my belief would stronger grow ! 

Is not my human pride brought low ? 

The boastings of my spirit still? 

The joy I had in my free will 

All cold, and dead, and corpse-like grojvn ? 

And what is left to me, but thou, 

Aud faith in thee ? Men pass me by : 

Christians with happy countenances — 

Aud children all seem full of thee ! 

And women smile with saintlike glances 

Like itine own mcther's when she bowed 

Above thee, on that hapi)y morn 

M'hen angels spake to men aloud, 

And thou and peace to earth were born. 

Goodwill to me as well as all — 

— I one of them: my brothers they: 

Brothers in Christ — a world of peace 

Aud confidence, day after day ; 
And trust and hope till things should cease, 

Aud then oue Heaven receive us all. 

How sweet to have a common faith ! 
To hold a common scorn of death-! 
And at a burial to hear 

The creaking cords which wound aud eat 
Into my human heart, whene'er 
Earth goes to earth, with grief, njt fear. 

With hopeful grief, were passing sweet! 
A grief not uninformed, and dull. 
Hearted with hope, of hope as full 
As is the blood with life, or night 
And a dark cloud with rich moonlight. 
To stand beside a grave, and see 
The red small atoms wherewith we 



SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS OF A SECOND-EATE SENSITIVE MIND. 



Are built, and smile in calm, and say — 
"These little motes and grains shall be 
Clothed on with immortality 
More glorious than the noon of day. 
All that is pass'd into the flowers, 
And into beasts and other men. 
And all the Norland whirlwind showers 
From open vaults, and all the sea 
O'erwashes with sharp salts, again 
Shall fleet together all, and "ra 
Indued with immortality." 

Thrice happy state again to be 

The trustful infant on the knee! 

Who lets his waxen fingers play 

About his mother's neck, and knows 

Nothing beyond his mother's eyes. 

They comfort him by night and day, 

They light his little life alway; 

He hath no thought of coming woes ; 

He hath no care of life or death, 

Scarce outward signs of joy arise, 

Because the Spirit of happiness 

And perfect rest so inward is ; 

And loveth so his innocent heart. 

Her temple and her place of birth. 

Where she would ever wish to dwell, 

Life of the fountain there, beneath 

Its salient springs, and far apart, 

Hating to wander out on earth. 

Or breathe into the hollow air, 

Whose chillness would make visible 

Her subtil, warm, and golden breath. 

Which mixing with the inl'ant's blooa, 

Fulllills him with beatitude. 

Oh ! sure it is a special care 

Of God, to fortify from doubt, 

To arm in proof, and guard about 

With triple mailed trust, and clear 

Delight, the infant's dawning year. 

Would that my gloomed fancy were 

As thine, my mother, when with brows 

Propped on thy knees, my hands upheld 

In thine, I listened to thy vows, 

For me outpoured in holiest prayer — 

For me unworthy ! — and beheld 

Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew 

The beauty and repose of faith. 

And the clear spirit shining through. 

Oh ! wherefore do we grow awry 

From roots which strike so deep ? why dare 

Paths iu the desert ? Could not I 

Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt, 

To th' earth — until the ice would melt 

Here, and I feel as thou hast felt? 

What Devil had the heart to scathe 

Flowers thou hadst reared — to brush the dew 

From thine own lily, when thy grave 

Was deep, my mother, in the clay? 

Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I 

So little love for thee? But why 

Prevailed not thy pure prayers ? Why pray 

To one who heeds not, who can save 

But will not? Great in faith, and strong 

Against the grief of circumstance 

Wert thon, and yet unheard ? What if 

Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive 

Through utter dark a full-sailed skifi", 

Unpiloted i' the echoing dance 

Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low 

Unto the death, not sunk ! I know 

At matins and at evensong. 

That thou, if thou wert yet alive. 

In deep and daily prayers would'st strive 

To reconcile me with thy God. 

Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold 

At heart, thou wouldest murmur still — 

"Bring this lamb back into thy fold. 



My Lord, if so it be thy will." 

Would'st tell me I must brook the rod, 

And chastisement of human pride; 

That pride, the sin of devils, stood 

Betwixt me and the light of God ! 

That hitherto I had defied. 

And had rejected God — that Grace 

Would drop from his o'erbrimming love. 

As manna on my wilderness. 

If I would pray — that God would move 

And strike the hard, hard rock, and tlieuce, 

Sweet in their utmost bitterness, 

Would issue tears of penitence 

Which would keep green hope's life. Alas; 

I think that pride hath now no place 

Or sojourn in me. I am void. 

Dark, formless, utterly destroyed. 

Why not believe then ? Why not yet 
Anchor thy frailty there, where man 
Hath moored and rested? Ask the sea 
At midnight, when the crisp slope waves 
After a tempest, rib and fret 
The broadimbased beach, why he 
Slumbers not like a mountain torn? 
Wherefore his ridges are not curls 
And ripples of an inland meer? 
Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can 
Draw down into his vexed pools 
All that blue heaven which hues and paves 
The other? I am too forlorn. 
Too shaken: my own weakness fools 
My judgment, and my spirit whirls, 
Moved from beneath with doubt and fear. 

"Yet," said I, iu my morn of youth. 

The unsunned freshness of my strength, 

When I went forth in quest of truth, 

"It is man's privilege to doubt. 

If so be that from doubt at length. 

Truth may stand forth unmoved of chaugs. 

An image with profulgeut brows, 

And perfect limbs, as from the storm 

Of running fires and fluid range 

Of lawless airs at last stood out 

This excellence and solid form 

Of constant beauty. For the Ox 

Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills 

T.he horned valleys all about. 

And hollows of the fringed hills 

In summerheats, with placid lows 

Unfcariug, till his own blood flows 

About his. hoof. And in the flocks 

The lamb rejoiceth iu the year. 

And raceth freely with his fere. 

And answers to his mother's calls 

From the flowered furrow. In a time. 

Of which he wots not, run short pains 

Through his warm heart ; and then, from whence 

He knows not, on his light there falls 

A shadow; and his native slope,. 

Where he was wont to leap and climb. 

Floats from his sick and filmed eyes, 

And something in the darkness draws 

His forehead earthward, and he dies. 

Shall men live thus, in joy and hope 

As a young lamb, who cannot dream, 

Living, but that he shall live on ? 

Shall we not look into the laws 

Of life and death, and things that seem. 

And things that be, and analj'ze 

Oin- double nature, and compare 

All creeds till we have found the one, 

If one there be?" Ay me ! I fear 

All may not doubt, but every where 

Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God, 

Whom call I Idol ? Let thy dove 

Shadow me over, and my sins 



THE BURIAL OF LOVE.— TO 



■SONG^^ 



Be uuremembered, and thy love 
Enlighten me. Oh teach me yet 
Somewhat before the heavy clod 
Weighs on me, and the busy I'let 
Of that sharp-headed worm begins 
In the gross blackness underneath. 

Oh weary life ! oh weary death ! 
Oh Sjiirit and heart made desolate '. 
Oh damniid vacillating state! 



THE BUrJAL OF LOVE. 

His eyes in eclipse, 
Palecold his lips, 
The light of his hopes imfed, 
Mute his tongue. 
His bow unstrung 
W'itli the tears he hath shed, 
Backward drooping his graceful head, 
Love is dead : 
His last arrow is sped ; 
He hath not another dart ; 
Go — carry him to his dark deathbed; 
Bury him in the cold, cold heart — 
Love is dead. 

Oh, truest love ! art thou forlorn. 
And nurevengcd ? thy pleasant wiles 
Forgotten, and thine innocent joy? 
Shall hollowhearted apathy. 
The cruellest form of perfect scorn, 
With languor of most hateful smiles, 
For ever write. 
In the withered light 
Of the tearless eye. 
An epitaph that all may spy ? 
No ! sooner she herself shall die. 

For her the showers shall not fall, 

Kor the round sun shine that shineth to all ; 

Her light shall into darkness change ; 
For her the green grass shall not spring, 
Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing 

Till Love have his full revenge. 



TO 



Sainted Juliet ! dearest name ! 
If to love be life alone, 
Divinest Juliet, 
I love thee, and live; and yet 
Love unreturncd is like the fragrant flame 
Folding the slaughter of the sacrifice 

Oflered to gods upon an altar-throne; 
My heart is lighted at thine eyes, 
Changed into tire, and blown about with s'ghs 



SONG. 



I" THE glooming light 

Of middle night 

So cold and white, 
Worn Sorrow sits by the moaning wave, 

Beside her are laid 

Her mattock and spado. 
For she hath half delved her own deep grave. 

Alone she is there : 
The white clouds drizzle: her hair falls loose. 

Her shoulders are bare; 
Her tears are mixed with the beaded dews. 



IL 

Death standeth by ; 

She will not die ; 

With glazed eye 
She looks at her grave ; she cannot sleep ; 

Ever alone 

She maketli her moan : 
She cannot speak : she can only weep. 

For she will not hope. 
The thick snow falls on her flake by flake. 

The dull wave mourns down the «l(;pe, 
The world will not change, and her heaif vyill uo-' 
break. 



SONG. 

I. 

The liutwhite and the throstlecocl/' 
Have voices sweet and clear ; 
All in the bloomed May. 
They from the bldfemy brere 
Call to the fleeting year. 
If that he would them hear 

And stay. 
Alas ! that one so beautiful 
Should have so dull an ear. 

IL 

Fair year, fair year, thy children c;ill. 
But thou art deaf as death ; 
All in the bloomed May. 
When thy light perisheth 
That from thee issucth, 
Our life evauisheth : 

Oh ! stay. 
Alas! that lips so cruel-dumb 
Should have so sweet a breath ? 

IIL 
Fair year, with brows of royal love 
Thou comest, as a king. 

All in the bloomed May. 
Thy gv^klen largess fling, 
And longer hear us sing ; 
Though thou art fleet of wing, 

Yet staj'. 
Alas I that eyes so full of light 
Should be so wandering ! 

IV. 

Thy locks are all of sunny sheen 
In rings of gold yronne,* 

All in the bloomi'd May. 
We pri'thee pass not on ; 
If thou dost leave the sun, 
Delight is with thee gone. 

Oh ! stay. 
Thou art the fairest of thy ferea,. 
We pri'thee pass not on. 



SONG. 

I. 

EvFKY day hath its night: 

Every night its morn : 
Thorough dark and bright 
Winged hours are borne: 
Ah ! wclaway ! 
Seasons flower and fade ; 
Golden calui and storm 
Mingle day by Ciny. 
There is no bright form 
Doth not cast a shade — 
Ah ! welaway ! 



" Hia crispy hair iu fipj;i3 U'lis yfoime.'* — Chaucsj, Kniijht^i TaU, 



NOTHING WILL DIE.— HERO TO LEANDER. 



2r>d 



II. 

When we laugh, and our mirth 

Apes the happy vein, 
We're so kin to earth, 
Pleasaunce fathers pain — 
Ah ! welaway ! 
Madness iaugheth loud: 
Laughter briugeth tears: 
Byes are worn away 
Till the end of fears 
Cometh in the shroud, 
Ah ! welaway ! 

III. 

All is change, woe or weal ; 

Joy is Sorrow's brother; 
Grief and gladness steal 
Symbols of each other; 
Ah ! welaway ! 
Larks in heaven's cope 
Sing: the culvers mourn 
All the livelong day. 
Be not all forlorn : 
Let us weep in hope — 
Ah ! welaway ! 



NOTHING WILL DIE. 

When will the stream be aweary of flowing 

Under my eye ? 
When will the wind be aweary of blowing 

Over the sky? 
When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting? 
vV'heu will the heart be aweary of beating? 

And nature die? 
Never, oh ! never, nothing will die ; 

The stream flows, 

The wind blows, 

The cloud fleets, 

The heart beats, 
Nothing will die. 

Nothing will die ; 

All things will change 
Through eternity. 
'Tis the world's winter ; 
Autumn and summer 
Are gone long ago. 
Earth is dry to the centre, 

But spring a new comer — 
A spring rich and strange, 
Shall make the winds blow 
Round and round, 
Through and through, 
Here and there, 
Till the air 
And the ground 
Shall be fliled with life anew. 
The world was never made ; 
It will change, but it will not fade. 
So let the wind range ; 
For even and morn 
Ever will be 
Through eternity. 
Nothing was born ; 
Nothing will die ; 
All things will change. 



ALL THINGS WILL DIE. 

Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing 

Under my eye ; 
Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing 

Over the sky. 
One after another the white clouds are fleeting; 
Every heart this Mayniorning in joyancc is beating 

Full merrily; 



Yet all things must die. 
The stream will cease to flow; 
The wind will cease to blow ; 
The clouds will cease to fleet; 
The heart will cease to beat; 

For all things must die. 

All things must die. 
Spring will come never more. 

Oh ! vanity ! 
Death waits at the door. 
See ! our friends are all forsaking 
The wine and merrymaking. 
We are called — we must go. 
Laid low, very low, 
In the dark we must lie. 
The merry glees are still ; 

The voice of the bird 

Shall no more be heard, 
Nor the wind on the hill. 
Oh ! misery ! 

Hark! death is calling 

While I speak to ye, 

The jaw is falling, 

The red cheek paling. 

The strong limbs failing; 

Ice with the warm blood mixing ; 

The eyeballs flxing. 

Nine times goes the passing bell: 

Ye merry souls, farewell. 

The old earth 

Had a birth. 

As all men know 

Long ago. 
And the old earth must die. 
So let the warm winds range, 
And the blue wave beat the shore j 
For even and mom 
Ye will never see 
Through eternity. 
All things wei'e born. 
Ye will come never more, 
For all things must die. 



HERO TO LEANDER. 

On go not yet, my love, 

The night is dark and vast; 
The white moon is hid in her heaven abovGj 

And the waves climb high and fast. 
Oh ! kiss me, kiss me, once again. 

Lest thy kiss should be the last. 
Oh kiss me ere we part ; 
Grow closer to my heart. 
My heart is warmer surely than the bosom cf the 
main. 
O joy ! O bliss of blisses ! 

My heart of hearts art thou. 
Come bathe me with thy kisses, 

Aly eyelids and my brow. 
Hark how the wild rain hisses. 

And the loud sea roars below. 

Thy heart beats through thy rosy limbs, 

So gladly doth it stir; 
Thine eye in drops of gladness swims. 

I have bathed thee with the pleasant niyniii 
Thy locks are dripping balm; 
Tliou Shalt not wander hence to-night, 

I'll Stay thee with my kisses. 
To-night the roaring brine 

Will rend thy golden tresses; 
The ocean with the morrow light 
Will be both blue and calm ; 
And the billow will embrcce thee with a kiss as soft 
as mine. 



2G0 



THE MYSTIC— THE GRASSHOPPEK.— CHORUS. 



No Western odmirs wander 

On the black and moaning pen, 
And when thou ait dead, Leander, 

My soul must follow thee ! 
Oh go not yet, my love, 

Thy voice is sweet and low ; 
The deep salt wave breaks in above 

Those marble steps below. 
The turretstnirs are wet 

That lead into the sea. 
Leander ! go net yet. 
The pleasant stars have set: 
Oh ! go not, go not yet, 

Or I will Ibllow thee. 



THE MYSTIC. 

Angei.s have talked with him, and showed h'.ni 

thrones : 
Ye knew him not ; he was not one of ye, 
Ye scorned him with an nndiscerning scoru : 
Ye could not read the marvel in his eye, 
The still serene abstraction: he hath felt 
The vanities of after and before; 
Albeit, his spirit and his secret heart 
The stern experiences of converse lives, 
The linked woes of many a fiery change 
Had purified, and chastened, and made free. 
Always there stood before him, night and day. 
Of wayward varycolored circumstance 
The imperishable presences serene. 
Colossal, without form, or sense, or sound. 
Dim shadows but unwaning presences 
Fourfacod to four corners of the sky : 
And yet "again, three shadows, fronting one. 
One forward, one respectant, three but one; 
And yet again, again and evermore. 
For the two first were not, but only seemed, 
One shadow in the midst of a great light. 
One reHex from eternity on time. 
One mighty countenance of perfect calm. 
Awful with most invariable eyes. 
For him the silent congregated hours, 
Daughters of time, divinely tall, beneath 
Severe and youthful l)rows, with shining ey-:3 
Smiling a godlike smile (the innocent light 
Of earliest youth pierced through and through with 

all 
Keen knowledges of low-embowed eld) 
Upheld, and ever hold alolt the cloud 
Which droops lowhung on either gate of life. 
Both birth and death : he in the centre fixt. 
Saw far on each side through the grated gates 
Most pale and clear and lovely distances. 
He often lying broad awake, and yet 
Remaining from the body, and apart 
In intellect and power and will, hatli heard 
Time fiowing in the middle of the night. 
And all tilings creci)ing to a day of (loom. 
How could ye know him? Ye were yet within 
The narrower circle : he had wellnigh reached 
The last, which with a region of white flame. 
Pure without heat, into a larger air 
Upbnrniiig, and an ether of black blue, 
Investeth and ingirds all other lives. 



THE GRASSHOPPER. 
I. 

VoioK of the summerwind, 

Joy of the sumrnerplain. 

Life of the snmmerhours, 

Carol clearly, bound along. 

No Titlion thou as poets feign 

(Shame fall 'em they are deaf and blind). 



But an insect lithe and strong. 
Bowing the seeded summer flowers. 
Prove their falsehood and thy quarrel. 

Vaulting on thine airy feet. 
Clap thy shielded sides and carol, 
Carol clearh', chirrup sweet. 
Thou art a mailed warrior in youth and strsngti* 
complete ; 

Armed cap-a-pie 
Full fair to see ; 
Unknowing fear, 
Undreadiug loss, 
A gallant cavalier, 
Smis peiir ct sans reproche, 
In sunlight and in shadow. 
The Bayard of the meadow. 

II. 

I would dwell with thee, 

Merry grasshopper. 
Thou art so glad and free. 

And as light as air; 
Thou hast no sorrow or tears, 
Thou hast no compt of years, 
No withered immortality. 
But a short youth sunny and fiee 
Carol clearly, bound along. 

Soon thy joy is over, 
A summer of loud song. 

And slumbers in the clover. 
M'hat hast thou to do with evil 
In thine hour of love and revel, 

In thy heat of summer pride. 
Pushing the thick roots aside 
Of the singing flowered grasses. 
That brush thee with their silken tresses? 
What hast thou to do with evil, 
Shooting, singing, ever springing 

In and out the emerald glooms. 
Ever leaping, ever singing, 

Liirhtiiig on the golden bloomsf 



LOVE, PRIDE, AND FORGETFULNESS 

Ere yet my heart was sweet Love's tomb, 

Love laboured honey busily. 

I was the hive, and Love the bee, 

My heart the honeycomb. 

One very dark and chilly night 

Pride came beneath and held a light. 

The cruel vapours went through all, 
Sweet Love was withered in his cell ; 
Pride took Love's sweets, and by a spell 
Did change them into gall ; 
And Memory, though fed by Pride, 
Did wax so thin on gall, 
Awhile she scarcely lived at ail. 
What marvel that she died? 



CHORUS 

IN AN CNniii.ir-nEi) drama, written very eaely, 
The varied earth, the moving heaven, 

The rapid waste of roving sea, 
The fountainpregnant mountains riven 

To shapes of wildest anarchy. 
By secret lire and midnight storms 

That wander round their windy coujjs, 
The subtle life, the countless forms 
Of living things, the wondrous tones 
Of man and beast arc full of strange 
Astonishment and boundless change. 



LOST HOPE.— LOVE AND SORKOW.— SONNETS. 



201 



The dny, the diamoiided night, 

The echo, feeble child of sound. 
The heavy thunder's gridint:; might, 

The herald lightning's stan-y bonnd. 
The vocal spring of bursting bloom. 

The naked summer's glowing birth, 
The troublous autumn's sallow gloom. 

The hoarhead winter paving earth 
With sheeny white, are full of strange 
Astonishment and boundless change. 

Eacn sun which from the centre flings 

Grand music and redundant tire, 
The burning belts, the mighty rings. 

The mnrm'rous planets' rolling choir, 
The globefllled arch that, cleaving air, 

Lost in its own eflulgence sleeps, 
The lawless comets as they glare. 

And thunder through the sapphire deeps 
In wayward strength, are full of strange 
Astonishment and boundless change. 



LOST HOPE. 

Voi; cast to ground the hope which once was mine: 
But did the while your harsh decree deplore. 

Embalming with sweet tears the vacant shrine, 
My heart, where Hope had been and was no more. 

So on an oaken sprout 
A goodly acorn grew ; 
But winds from heaven shook the acorn out. 
And filled the cup with dew. 



THE TEAPvS OF HEAVEN. 

Heaven weeps above the earth all night till morn, 
In darkness weeps as all ashamed to weep. 
Because the earth hath made her state forlorn 
With self-wrought evil of nnnnmbered years. 
And doth the fruit of her dishonor reap. 
And all the day heaven gathers back her tears 
Into her own blue eyes so clear and deep. 
And showering down the glory of lightsome day, 
Smiles on the earth's worn brow to win her if she 
may. 



LOVE AND SORROW. 

O MAiBEN, fresher than the first green leaf 

With which the fearful springtide flecks the lea, 

Weep not, Almeida, that I said to thee 

That thou hast half my heart, for bitter grief 

Doth hold the other half in sovranty. 

Thou art my heart's sun in love's crystalline: 

Yet on both sides at once thou canst not shine: 

Thine is the bright side of my heart, and thine 

My heart's day, hut the shadow of my heart. 

Issue of its ow'n substance, my heart's night 

Thou canst not lighten even with thy light, 

Allpowerful in beauty as thou art. 

Almeida, if my heart were substanceless. 

Then might thy rays pass through to the other side. 

So swiftly, that they nowhere would abide, 

But. lose themselves in utter emptiness. 

Half-light, half-shadow, let my spirit sleep; 

They never learned to love who never knew to weep. 



TO A LADY SLEEPING. 

O Tiiou whose fringed lids I gaze upon, 
Through whose dim brain the winged dieams are 
borne, 



Unroof the shrines of clearest vision, 

In honor of the silver-flecked morn ; 

Long hath the wliite wave of the virgin light 

Driven back the billow of the dreamful dark. 

Thou all unwittingly prolongest night. 

Though long ago listening the poised lark. 

With eyes dropt downward through the blue serene, 

Over heaven's parapet the angels lean. 



SONNET. 

Coci.D I outwear my present sate of woe 
With one brief winter, and indue i' the spring 
Hues of fresh youth, and mightily outgrow 
The wan dark coil of faded sulTering — 
Forth in the pride of beauty issuing 
A sheeny snake, the light of vernal bowers. 
Moving his crest to all sweet plots of flowers- 
And watered valleys where the young birds sing ; 
f-ould I thus hope my lost delight's renewing, 
I straightly would command the tears to creep 
From my charged lids ; but inwardly I weep ; 
Some vital heat as yet my heart is wooing: 
That to itself hath drawn the frozen raiu 
From my cold eyes, and melted it again. 



SONNET. 

TiiocGU Night hath climbed her peak of highest 

noon. 
And bitter blasts the screaming autumn whirl. 
All night through archways of the bridged pearl, 
And portals of pure silver, w^alks the moon. 
Walk on, my soul, nor crouch to agony. 
Turn cloud to light, and bitterness to joy, 
And dross to gold with glorious alchemy. 
Basing thy throne above the world's annoy. 
Reign thiiu above the storms of sorrow and ruth 
That roar beneath ; unshaken peace hath won thee; 
So shalt thou pierce the woven glooms of truth ; 
So shall the blessing of the meek be on thee ; 
So in thine hour of dawn, the body's youth, 
An houcuiable eld shall come upon thee. 



SONNET. 

SiiAi.T. the hag Evil die with child of Good, 
Or propagate again her loathed kind. 
Thronging the cells of the diseased mind. 
Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood, 
Though hourly pastured on the salient blood? 
Oh ! that the wind which bloweth cold or heat 
Would shatter and o'erbear the brazen beat 
Of their broad vans, and in the solitude 
Of middle space confound them, and blow hack 
Their wild cries down their cavern throats, and slake 
With points of blastborne hail their- heated ejmc ! 
So their wan limbs no more might come between 
The moon and the moon's reflex in the night. 
Nor blot with floating shades the solar light. 



SONNET. 

TiiE pallid Ihunderstricken sigh for gain, 
Down an ideal stream they ever float, 
And sailing en Pactolus in a boat. 
Drown soul and sense, -while wistfully they strain 
Weak eyes upon the glistening sands that robe 
The nuderstream. The wise, could he behold 
Cathedralled caverns of thiekribbikl gold 
And branching silvers of the central globe, 
Would niaiTcl from so beautiful a sight 



202 



LOVE.— THE KRAKEN.— ENGLISH WAR-SONG.— NATIONAL SONG. 



How scoru and ruin, paiu and hate could flow. 
But Hatred in a gold cave sits below ; 
Pleached with her hair, iu mail of argent light 
Shot iuto gold, a suake her forehead clips, 
Aud skius the colour from her trembling lip&. 



LOVE. 
I. 

TiiotT, from the first, unborn, unaymg love. 
Albeit we gaze not on thy glories near. 
Before the face of God didst breathe and move, 
Though night and paiu aud ruiu and death reign 

here. 
Thou foldest, like a golden atmosphere, 
The very throne of the eternal God: 
Passing through thee the edicts of his fear 
Are mellowed iuto music, borne abroad 
By the loud winds, though they upreiid the sea. 
Even from its central deeps: thiue empery 
Is over all ; thou wilt not brook eclipse ; 
Thou goest and returnest to His lijis 
Like lightning: thou dost ever brood above 
The silence of all hearts, unutterable Love. 

IL 

To know thee is all wisdom, and old age 
Is but to know thee: dimly we behold thee 
Athwart the veils of evils which infold thee. 
We beat upon our aching hearts in rage; 
We cry for thee; we deem the world thy tomb. 
As dwellers in lone planets look upon 
The mighty disk of their majestic sun. 
Hollowed in awful chasms of wheeling gloom, 
Making their day dim, so we gaze on thee. 
Come, thou of many crowns, whiierobiid love, 
Oh ! rend the veil in twain : all men adore thee ; 
Heaven crieth after thee; earth waiteth for thee; 
Breathe ou thy winged throne, and it shall move 
In music aud iu light o'er land and sea. 

in. 

And now — methinks I gaze upon thee now, 
As ou a serpent in his agonies 
Awestricken Indians ; what time laid low 
And crushing the thick fragrant reeds he lies, 
When the new year warmbreathc'd on the Earth, 
Waiting to light him with her purple skies, 
Calls to him by the fountain to uprise. 
Already with the pangs of a new birth 
Strain the hot spheres of his convulsJd eyts, 
Aud iu his writhings awful hues begin 
To wander down his sable-sheeny sides. 
Like light on troubled waters : from withiu 
Anon he rusheth forth with merry din. 
And in him light and joy and strength abides; 
And from his brows a crowu of living light 
Looks through the thickstemmed woods i)y day and 
night. 



THE KRAKEN. 

Below the thunders of the upper deep; 

Far, far beneath in tlie abysmal sea, 

His ancient, dreamless, uniuvaded sleep. 

The Krakeu sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee 

About his shadowy sides: above him swell 

Huge sponges of millennial growth and height; 

And far away into the sickly light. 

From many a wondrous grot and secret cell 

Unnumbered and enormous polypi 

Winnow with giant fins the slumbering green. 

There hath he lain for ages and will lie 

Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep. 

Until the latter fire shall heat the decj); 

Then once by man and angels to be seen, 

In n aring he shall rise and on the surface die. 



ENGLISH WAR-SONG. 

Who fears to die? W'ho fears to die I 
Is there any here who fears to die? 
He shall find what he fears; aud uoue shall grieve 

For the man who fears to die : 
But the withering scoru of the many shall cleave 
To the mau who fears to die. 
Cuoaus. — Shout for England! 
Ho ! for England ! 
George for England '. 
Merry England ! 
England for aye 1 

The hollow at heart shall crouch forlorn, 

He shall eat the bread of common scoru ; 
It shall be steeped iu the salt, salt tear. 

Shall be steeped in his own salt tear : 
Far better, far better he never were born 

Than to shame merry England here. 
CuoRus. — Shout for England ! etc. 

There standeth our ancient enemy: 

Hark! he shouteth — the ancient enemy! 
On the ridge of the hill his banners rise ; 

They stream like fire iu the skies; 
Hold up the Lion of England ou high 

Till it dazzle and blind his eyes. 

CiioKDS. — Shout for England! etc. 

Come along ! we alone of the earth are fi-ee ; 

The child in our cradles is bolder than he : 
For where is the heart aud strength of slaves ? 

Oh ! where is the strength of slaves ? 
He is weak I we are strong : he a slave, we are fres 

Come along ! we will dig their graves. 
CuoEus. — Shout for England! etc. 

There standeth our ancient enemy t 

Will he dare to battle with the free? 
Spur along ! spur amain ! charge to the fight ' 

Charge ! charge to the fight ! 
Hold up the Lion of England ou high ! 

Shout for God and our right ! 

CiioKus. — Shout for England! etc. 



NATIONAL SONG, 

TuF.EE is no laud like England 
Where'er the light of day be ; 
There are no hearts like English hearts. 

Such hearts of oak as they be. 
There is no laud like England 

Where'er the light of day be; 
There are no men like Englishmen, 
So tall and bold as they be. 
Cnop.i.G. — For the French the Pope may slnivc 'en\ 
For the devil a whit we heed 'em: 
As for the French, God speed 'em 

Unto their heart's desire. 
And the merry devil drive 'cm 
Through the water and the fire. 
FuT.L CuoE. — Our glory is our freedom, 
We lord it o'er the sea : 
We are the sons of freedom, 
We are fi'ce. 

There is no land like England, 

Where'er the light of day be; 
There are no wives like English wivee, 

So fair and chaste as they be. 
There is no laud like England, 

Where'er the light of day be; 
There are no maids like English maids. 

So beautiful ns they be. 
CjiORUs. — For the French, etc. 



DUALISMS.— WE ARE FREE.— 01 f«orr£c— SONNET.— TO 



20:5 



DUALISMS. 

Two bees within a crystal flowerbell rocki'd, 
Hum ;i lovelay to the westvvind at uooutide. 
Both alike, they buzz together, 
Both alike, they liuui together, 
Through aud through the flowered heather. 
Where in a creeping cove the wave unshockud 
Lays itself calm and wide. 
Over a stream two birds of glancing feather 
Do woo each other, carolling together. 
Both alike, they glide together, 

Side by side ; 
Both alike, they sing together. 
Arching blue-glossed necks beneath the purple 
weather. 

Two children lovelier than Love adown the lea are 

singing, 
•Vs they gambol, lilygarlands ever stringing: 
Both in blosmvvhite silk are frocked: 
Like, unlike, they roam together 
Under a sunimervanlt of golden weather ; 
Like, unlike, they sing together 
Side by side, 
MidMay's darling golden locked, 
Summer's tanliug diamond eyed. 



WE ARE FREE. 

Tub winds, as at their hour of birth, 
Leaning upon the wiug6d sea, 



Breathed low around the rolling earth 
With mellow preludes, "We are free." 

The streams through many a lilied row 
Down-carolling to the crispi'd sea, 

Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow 
Atwecu the blossoms, " We arc free." 



01 fi-'omg. 
I. 

Ai.T, thoughts, all creeds, all dreams are true, 

All visions wild and strange ; 
Man is the measure of all truth 

Unto himself. All truth is change. 
All men do walk in sleep, and all 

Have faith in that they dream: 
For all things are as they seem to all. 

And all things flow like a stream. 

n. 

There is no rest, no calm, no pause, 

Nor good nor ill, nor light nor shade, 
Nor essence nor eternal laws : 

For nothing is, but all is made. 
But if I dream that all these are, 

They are to me for that I dream ; 
For all things are as they seem to all, 

And all things flow like a stream. 

Argal — this very opinion is only true relatively to 
the flowing philosophers. 



POEMS PUBLISHED IN THE EDITION OF 1833, 
AND OMITTED IN LATER EDITIONS. 



SONNET. 

M:>'E be the strength of spirit fierce and free, 

Like some broad river rushing down alone. 

With the selfsame impulse wherewith he was thrown 

From his Ujud fount upon the echoing lea: — 

Which with increasing might doth forward flee 

By town, and tower, and hill, and cape, and isle. 

And in the middle of the green salt sea 

Keeps his blue waters fresh for many a mile. 

Mine be the Power which ever to its sway 

Will win the wise at once, and by degrees 

May into uncongenial spirits flow; 

Even as the great gulfstream of Florida 

Floats far away into the Northern seas 

The lavish growths of southern Mexico. 



TO 



I. 

Aix good things have not kept aloof, 
Nor wandered into other ways ; 

I have not lacked thy mild reproof. 
Nor golden largess of thy praise, 
But life is full of weary days. 

IL 

Shake bauds, my friend, across the brink 
Of that deep grave to which I go. 

Shake hands once more: 1 cannot sink 
So far— far down, but I shall know 
Thy voice, aud answer from below. 



in. 

When, iu the darkness over me. 
The four-handed mole shall scrape, 

Plant thou no dusky cypress tree. 
Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape, 
But pledge me iu the flowing grape. 

IV. 

And when the sappy field and wood 
Grow green beneath the showery graj", 

Aud rugged barks begin to bud, 
And through damp holts, newfliished with Majj 
Ring sudden laughters of the Jay ; 



Then let wise Nature woi'k her ivill. 
And on my clay tlie darnels grow. 

Come only when the days are still, 
Aud at my headstone whisper low, 
Aud tell mc if the woodbines blow, 

VI. 

If thou art blest, my mother's smile 
Undimmed, if bees are on the wing: 

Then cease, my friend, a little while. 
That I may hear the throstle sing 
His bridal song, the boast of spring. 

VII. 

Sweet as the noise in parched plains 
Of bubbling wells that fret the stones 

(If any sense in me remains). 
Thy words will be; thy cheerful tones. 
As welcome to my crumbling bones. 



2G4: 



BUONAPARTE.— SONNETS.— THE HESPERIDES. 



BUONAPARTE. 

He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak, 
Madniau I — to chain with chains, and bind with bands 
That island queen that sways the floods and lauds 
From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight woke, 
AVheu from her wooden walls, lit by sure hands. 
With thunders, and with lightnings, and with smoke, 
Peal after peal, the British battle broke. 
Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands. 
We taught him lowlier moods, when Elsiuore 
Heard the war moan along the distant sea, 
Rocking with shattered spars, with sudden fires 
Flamed over: at Trafalgar yet once more 
We taught him : late he learned humility [ers. 

Perforce, like those whom Gideon schooled with bri- 



S0NNET3. 
I. 

BEAUTY, passing beauty! sweetest Sweet I 

How canst thou let me waste my youth in sighs ? 

1 only ask to sit beside thy feet. 

Thou kuowest I dare not look into thine eyes. 
Might I but kiss thy hand ! I dare not fold 

My arms about thee — scarcely dare to speak. 
And nothing seems to me so wild and bold. 

As with (;ne kiss to touch thy blessed check. 
Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control 

Within the thrilling brain could keep afloat 

The subtle spirit. Even while I spoke, 
The bare word Kiss hath made my inner soul 

To tremble like a lutestring, ere the note 

Hath melted iu the silence that it broke. 

II. 

But were I loved, as I desire to be. 

What is there iu the great sphere of the earth, 

And range of evil between death and birth, 

That I should fear, — if I were loveci by thee ? 

All the inner, all the outer world of pain 

Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert 

mine, 
As I have heard that, somewhere in the main, 
Fresh-water spriugs come up through bitter brine. 
'Twere joy, not fear, clasped hand-iu-hand with thee. 
To wait for death— mute— careless of all ills, 
Apart upon a mountain, though the surge 
Of some new deluge from a thousand hills 
Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge 
beiow us, as far on as eye could see. 



THE HESPERIDES. 

Heapenis and his dftuj^htera three, 

TImt sin^ about the golden, tree.— CoMUS. 

The Northwind fall'n, iu the newstarrt'd night 
Zidonian Hanno, voyaging beyond 
The hoary proinontory of Soloe 
Past Thymiaterion, in calmed bays, 
Between the southern and the Mestern Horn, 
Heard neither warbling of the nightingale. 
Nor melody of the Libyan lotus flute 
Blown seaward from the shore; but from a slope 
That ran bloombright into the Atlantic blue, 
Beneath a highland leaning down a weight 
Of cliff's, and zoned below with cedar shade. 
Came voices, like the voices in a dream, 
Coutiuuous, till he reached the outer sea. 

SONG. 
I. 

The goideu apple, the golden apple, llie hallowed 
Guard it well, guard it warily, [fruit. 

Singing airily. 



Standing about the charmid root. 

Round about all is mute, 

As the snowtield («i the monntain-peakSi 

As the sandtield at the mountain-foot. 

Crocodiles in briny creeks 

Sleep and stir not: all is mate. 

If ye sing not, if ye make fal.-^e measure, 

We shall lose eternal pleasure. 

Worth eternal want of rest. 

Laugh not loudly: watch the treasure 

Of the wisdom of the West. 

In a corner wisdom whispers. Five and three 

(Let it not be preached abroad) make an awful myS' 

tery. 
For the blossom unto threefold music bloweth; 
Evermore it is born anew ; 
And the sap to threefold music floweth, 
From the root 
Drawn in the dark, 
L'p to the fruit, 

Creeping under the fragrant bark. 
Liquid gold, honeysweet, ihro' and thro'. 
Keeu-eyed Sisters, singing airily. 
Looking warily 
Every ^vay. 

Guard the apple night and day, 
Lest one from the East come and take it a«.ay. 

IL 

Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, ever 
aud aye. 

Looking under silver hair with a silver eye. 

Father, twinkle not thy steadfast sight; 

Kingdoms lapse, aud climates change, and races 
die; 

Honour comes with mystery ; 

Hoarded w'isdom brings delight. 

Number, tell them over and number 

How many the mystic fruit tree holds 

Lest the redcombed dragon tUiinber 

Rolled together in purple folds. 

Look to him, father, lest he wink, and the golden 
apple be stol'n away, 

For his ancient heart is drunk with overwatching.^ 
night and day, 

Round about the hallowed fruit tree curled — 

Sing away, sing aloud evermore iu the wind, with- 
out stop. 

Lest his scaled eyelid drop. 

For he is older than the world. 

If he waken, we waken. 

Rapidly levelling eager eyes. 

If he sleep, Ave sleep. 

Dropping the eyelid over the eyes. 

If the golden apple be taken, 

The world will be overwise. 

Five links, a golden chain, are we, 

Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, 

Bound about the golden tree. 

in. 

Father Hesper, Father llcpper, watch, watch, night 

and day. 
Lest the old wound of the world be healed, 
The glory unsealed. 
The golden apple stolen away. 
And the ancient secret revealed. 
Look from west to east along: 
Father, old Himala weakens, Caucasus is bold an J 

strong. 
Wandering waters unto wandering waters call: 
Let them clash together, foam and fall. 
Out of watchings, out of wiles. 
Conies the bliss of secret smiles. 
All things are not told to all. 
Half-round the mautiing night is drawn, 
Purple fringec'i with even and dawn. 
Hesper hateth Phosphor, evening hateth morn. 



KOSALIND.— SONG.— KATE. 



2G.- 



IV. 

Every flower and every fruit the redolent breath 

Of this warm sea wiud ripeueth, 

Arching the billow iu bis sleep; 

But the laud wind wandereth, 

Broken by the highland-steep, 

Two streams upon the violet deep ; 

For the western sun and the western star, 

And the low west wind, breathing afar, 

The end of day and beginning of night 

Make the apple holy and bright ; 

Holy and bright, round and full, bright and blest, 

Mellowed iu a land of rest ; 

Watch it warily day and night ; 

All good things are iu the west. 

Till mid noon the cool east light 

Is shut out by the tall hillbrow ; 

But when the fullfaced sunset yellowly 

Stays on the flowering arch of the bough, 

The luscious fruitage clustereth mellowly, 

Golden kernelled, goldencored, 

Suuset-ripened above on the tree. 

The world is wasted with tire and sword. 

But the apple of gold haugs over the sea. 

Five links, a golden chain are we, 

Hesper, the dragon, and sisters thiee. 

Daughters three. 

Bound about 

The gnarled bole of the charmed tree. 

The golden apple, the goldeu apple, the hallowed 

fruit, 
Guard it well, guard it warll}', 
\\ atch it warily. 
Singing airily, 
Standing about the charmed root. 



E03ALIND. 

I. 

My Eosalind, my Rosalind, 

My frolic falcon, with bright eyes. 

Whose free delight, from any height of rapid flight, 

Stoops at all game that wing the skies. 

My Ros.aliud, my Rosalind, 

My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whither. 

Careless both of wind and w-eathcr. 

Whither fly yc, what game spy ye, 

Up or down the streaming wiud? 

II. 

The quick lark's ciosest-carclled strains, 

The shadow rushing up the sea. 

The lighting flash atween the rains. 

The sunlight driving down the lea, 

The leaping stream, the veiy wiud. 

That will not stay, upon his way, 

To stoop the cowslip to the plains. 

Is not so clear and bold and free 

As you, my falcon Rosalind. 

You care not for another's pains. 

Because you are the soul of joy, 

Bright metal all without alloy. 

Life shoots and glances thro' your veins, 

And flashes off a thousand ways. 

Through lips and eyes iu subtle rays. 

Yom- hawkeyes are keen and bright. 

Keen with triumph, watching still 

To pierce me through with pointed light; 

But oftentimes they flash and glitter 

Like sunshine on a dancing rill, 

And your words are seeming-bitter, 

Sharp and few, but seemins-bitter 

From excess of swift delight. 

III. 

Come down, come home, my Rosalind, 
My gay young hawk, my Rosalind : 



Too long you keep the upper skies; 

Too long you roam and wheel at will; 

But we must hood your random eyes, 

That care not whom they kill, 

And your cheek, whose brilliant hue 

Is so sparkling-fresh to view. 

Some red heath flower in the dew. 

Touched with suu rise. M'e must bind 

And keep you fast, my Rosalind, 

Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind, 

And clip your wings, and make you love: 

When we have lured you from above. 

And that delight of frolic flight, by day or 

From north to south ; 

Will bind you fast in silken cords. 

And kiss away the bitter words 

From ofl' your rosy mouth. 



NOTE TO ROSALIND. 

Perhaps the followinp; lines nmy be allowed to stand as a separate 



night, 



poem ; originally they 
if'estly improper. 



ade part of tlie test, where tliey we 



Mv Rosalind, my Rosalind, 

Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind, 

Is one of those who know no strife 

Of inward woe or outward fear ; 

To whom the slope and stream of Life, 

The life before, the life behind, 

In the ear, from far and near, 

Chimeth musically clear. 

My falconhearted Rosalind, 

Fullsailed before a vigorous wind, 

Is one of those who cannot weep 

For others' woes, but overleap 

All the petty shocks and fears 

That trouble life in early years, 

With a flash of frolic scoru 

And keen delight, that never falls 

Away from freshness, selfiipborne 

With such gladness as, whenever 

The freshflnshing springtime calls 

To the flooding waters cool. 

Young fishes, on an April morn, 

I'p and down a rapid river. 

Leap the little waterfalls 

That sing into the pebbled pool. 

My happy falcon, Rosalind, 

Hath daring fancies of her own. 

Fresh as the dawn before the day, 

Fresh as the early seasmell blown 

Through vineyards from au inland ba7. 

My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 

Because no shadow on you falls. 

Think you hearts are tennisballs, 

To play with, wanton Rosalind? 



SOXG. 

Who can say 

Why Today 

Tomorrow will be yesterday? 

Who cau tell 

Why to smell 

The violet, recalls the dewy prime 

Of youth and buried time? 

The cause is nowhere found in rhyma 



KATE. 

I KNOW her by her angry air, 

Her bright black e)'es, her bright black hair. 

Her rapid laughters wild and shrill, 
As laughters of the woodjjecker 



26G 



SONNETS.— O DARLING ROOM.— TO C. NOKTIT. 



From the bosom of a hill. 
'Tis Kate — she sayeth what she will: 
For Kate hath an mibricllc'd tougue, 
Clear as the twaniiiiig of a harp. 

Her heart is lilce a tiirobbiiig star. 
Kate hath a spirit ever strung 
Like a uew bow, aud bright and sharp 

As edges of the scymetar. 
Whence shall she take a fitting mate? 

For Kate no common love will feel; 
jVIy womau-soldier, gallant Kate, 

As pure and true as blades of steel. 



Kate saith " the world is void of might." 
Kate saith "the men are gilded flies." 
Kate snaps her fingers at my vows; 
Kate will not hear of lovers' sighs. 
I would I were an armed knight, 
Far famed for wellwou enterprise, 

And wearing on my swarthy brows 
The barland of new-wreathed emprise; 
For in a moment I would pierce 
The blackest files of clanging fight. 
And strongly strike to left and right, 
In dreaminc,- of my lady's eyes. 

Oh! Kate loves well the bold and fierce: 
But none are bold enough for Kate, 
She cannot find a fitting mate. 



SONNET 

WRITTEN ON nEAKINO OF THE OUTIiEEAK OF THE 
rOI.ISU IN8CERE0TI0.V. 

Bi.ow ye the trumpet, gather from afar 
The hosts to battle: be not bought and sold. 
Arise, brave Poles, the boldest of the bold ; 
Break through your iron shackles— fliug them far. 
O for those days of Piast, ere the Czar 
Grew to his strength among his deserts cold; 
When even to Moscow's cupolas were rolled 
The growing murmurs of the Polish war ! 
Now must your noble anger blaze out more 
Thau when from Sobieski, clan by clan, 
The Moslem myriads fell, aud fled before — 
Than when Zamoysky smote the Tatar Khan ; 
Than earlier, when on the Baltic shore 
BoleslaB drove the Pomeranian. 



SONNET 



ON THE n;:Rt;LT of the i.ate rugsi.vn invasion 

OF rOI.ANl). 

n.)w long, O God, shall men bs ridden down, 
And trampled under by the last and least 
Of men ? The heart of Poland hath not ceased 
To quiver, thcmgh her sacred blood doth drown 
The fields ; and out of every mouldering town 
Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be increased, 
Till that o'crgrown Barbarian in the East 
Transgress liis anii)le bound to some new crown: — 
Cries to Thee, "Lord, how long shall these things be ? 
How long shall the icy-hearted Muscovite 
Oppress the region ?" Us, O Just and Good, 
Forgive, who smiled when she was torn in three; 
Us, who st;nid nini\ when we should aid the right — 
A matter to be wept with tears of blood ! 



SONNET. 

As when with downcast eyes we nnise and brood, 
And ebb into a former life, or seem 
To lapse far back in a confnsud dream 
To states of mystical similitude; 



If one but speaks or hems or stirs his chair, 

Ever the wonder waxeth more and more, 

So that we say, " All this liath been before. 

All this hath been, I know not when or where." 

So, friend, when first I looked upon your face. 

Our thought gave answer, each to each, so true. 

Opposed mirrors each reflecting each — 

Altho' I knew not in what time or idace, 

Methought that I bad often met wiih you, 

And each had lived in tlie other's mind and speech. 



ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782. 

O THOO, that seudest out the man 

To rule by land and sen, 
Strong mother of a Lion-line, 
Be i)r()ud of those strong sons of thine 

Who wrench'd their rights from thee J 

What wonder, if in noble heat 

Those men thine arms withstood, 
Retaught the lesson thou hadst taught, 
And iu thy spirit with thee fought— 
Who sprang from English blood ! 

But Thou rejoice with liberal joy, 

Lift up thy rocky face, 
Aud shatter, when the storms ai e black, 
In many a streaming torrent back, 

The seas that shock thy base ! 

Whatever harmonies of law 

The growing world assume. 
Thy work is thine— The single note 
From that deep chord which Hampden snn)te 

Will vibrate to the doom. 



O DARLING ROO?L 
I. 

O DAKLiNO room, my heart's delight 
Dear room, the apple of my sight. 
With thy two couches soft aud white, 
There is no room so exquisite, 
No little room so warm and bright. 
Wherein to read, wherein to write. 

IL 

For I the Nonnenwerth have seen, 
And Oberwinter's vineyards green. 
Musical Lurlei : and between 
The hills to Bingen have I been, 
Bingeu in Darmstadt, where the Rhene 
Curves toward Meutz, a woody scene. 

IIL 

Yet never did there meet my sight. 

In any town to left or right, 

A little room so exquisite, 

With two such couches, soft and whites 

Not any room so warm and bright, 

Wherein to read, wherein to write. 



TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH. 

You did late review my lays. 

Crusty Christoi)her ; 
You did mingle blame and praise, 

Rusty Christojiber. 
When I learnt from whom it came, 
I forgave you all the blame. 

Musty Christopher; 
I could not forgive the praise. 

Fusty Chriutopher. 



ANACREONTICS.— A FRAGMENT.— SONNETS.— SKIPPING-EOPE. 



2g; 



OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



NO MORE.* 

Oh sfid Xo More ! Oh sweet Xo More ! 

Oh stiauge Xo More ! 
By a mossed brookbauk on a stone 
I smelt a wiUUveed flower alone ; 
There was a ringing in my ears. 
And both my eyes gushed out with tears. 
Surely all pleasant things had gone before, 
LowburiRd fathom deep beneath with thee, No Moke ! 



ANACREONTICS. 

With roses muskybreathed, 
And drooping daftbdilly, 
And silverleaved lily, 
And ivy darkly-wreathed, 
I wove a crown before her, 
For her 1 love so dearly, 
A garland for Lenora. 
With a silken cord I bound it. 
Lenora,- laughing clearly 
A light and thrilling laughter, 
About her forehead M^onnd it, 
And loved me ever after. 



A FRAGMENT. 

WnEEB ;a the Giant, of the Sun, which stood 
In the mlduoon the glory of old Rhodes, 
A perfect Idol with profnlgeut brOws 
Farsheening down the purple seas to those 
Who sailed from Mizraim underneath the star 
Named of the Dragon— and between whose limbe 
Of brassy vastness broadblown Argosies 
Drave into haven ? Yet endure unscathed 
Of changeful cycles the great Pyramids 
Broadbased amid the fleeting sands, and sloped 
Into the slumbrous summer noon; but where, 
Mysterious Egypt, are thine obelisks 
Graven with gorgeous emblems undiscerned ? 
Thy placid Sphinxes brooding o'er the Nile? 
Thy shadowing Idols in the solitudes. 
Awful Memnonian countenances calm 
Looking athwart the burning flats, far oflf 
Seen by the highnecked camel on the verge 
Journeying southward? Where are thy monuments 
Piled by the strong and sunborn Anakim 
Over their crowned brethren On and Opii ? 
Tliy Memnon when his peaceful lips are kist 
With earliest rays, that from his mother's eyj? 
Flow over the Arabian bay, no more 
Breathes low into the charmed ears of morn 
Clear melody flattering the crisped Nile [down : 
By columned Thebes. Old Memphis hath gone 
The Pharoahs aro no more: somewhere in death 
They sleep with staring eyes and gilded lips. 
Wrapped round with spiced cerements iu old grots 
Bockhewu and sealed for ever. . 



'■'' This and the two following poems are from the Gem, a litenir 
nnnual for 1831. 



eONNET.* 

Me my own fate to lasting sorrow doomettii 
Thy woes are birds of jiassage, transitory: 
Thy spirit, circled with a living glory, 

In summer still a summer joy resnmeth. 

Alone my hopeless melancholy gloometh, 
Like a lone cypress, through the twilight hoary, 

From an old garden where no flower bloomelh, 
One cypress on an island promontorj-. 

But yet my lonely spirit follows thine, 
As round the rolling earth night follows day: 

But yet thy lights on my horizon shine 
Into my night, when thou art far away 

I am so dark, alas! and thou so bright. 

When we two meet there's never perfect light. 



SONNET.-^ 

Check every outflaeh, every ruder sally 
Of thought and speech ; speak low and give uj: 
wholly 

Thy spirit to mild-minded melancholy; 

This is the jilace. Through yonder poplar valley 
Below the blue-green river windeth slowly ; 

But in the middle of the sombre valley 

The crisped waters whisper musically, 
And all the hannted place is dark and holy. 

The nightingale, with long and low preamble, 
W^arbled from yonder knoll of solemn larches, 
And in and out the woodbine's flowery arches 

The summer midges wove their wanton gambol 
And all the white-stemmed pinewood slept above- 
When in this valley first I told my love. 



THE SKIPPING-ROPE.t 

SuKK never yet was Antelope 

Could skip so lightly by. 
Stand oft', or else my skipping-rope 

Will hit you in the eye. 
Eow lightly whirls the skippiug-rone ! 

How fairy-like you fly ! 
Go, get you gone, yon muse and mope- 

I hate that si'Ily sigh. 
Nay, dearest, teach me how to hope, 

Or tell me how to die. 
There, take it, take my skipping-rope, 

And hang yourself thereby. 



THE NEW TIMON x\ND THE POETS. t 

We know him, out of Shakspeaie's art. 
And those flue curses which he spoke; 

The old Timon, with his noble heart, 
That, strongly loathing, greatly broke. 



* Friendship's O.Terinp, 1S33. 

t Omitted from the edition of lM4i. 

t Published iu Punch, Feb. 1S46, si^'ned " Alcihiades.' 



2G8 



NEW TIMON.— AFTER-THOUGHT.— BIJfONS, GUARD YOUR OWN. 



bo died the Old: here comes the New. 

Ec^ai'd him: a familiar face: 
I thoui;ht we knew him : What, it's yon, 

The padded maii — ihat wears the stays — 

M'ho killed the trirls and thrilled the boys 
With dandy pathos when yoii wrote I 

A Lion, you, that made a noise. 
And shook a mane en papillotes. 

And once you tried the Muses too: 
Yon tailed. Sir: therefore now you turn, 

■'.'o fall on those who are to you 
As Captain is to Subaltern. 

But men of long-euduring hopes, 
And careless what this hour may biiuf^, 

Cau pardon little would-be Popks 
And Bf.um.mei.8, when they try to sting. 

An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art, 
And wave a little of his claim; 

To have the deep Poetic heart 
Is more than all poetic fame. 

But you. Sir, you are hard to please; 

Yon never look but half content: 
Nor like a gentleman at ease. 

With moral breadth of temperameiit. 

And what with spites and what with fears, 

Yon can not let a body he: 
It's always ringing in your ears, 

"They call this man as good as me.^'' 

What profits now to understand 
The merits of a spotless shirt — 

A dapper boot — a little hand — 
If half the little soul is dirt ? 

You talk of tinsel ! why, we see 

The old mark of rouge upon your cheeks. 
You prate of Nature ! you are he 

That spilt his life about the cliques. 

A TiMON you! Nay, nay, for shame: 

It looks too arrogant a jest — 
Tlie fierce old man— to take his name, 

You bandbox. Off, and let him rest. 



LITERARY SQUABBLES.* 

All, God ! the petty fools of rhyme, 
That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars 

Before the stony face of Time, 
And look'd at by the silent stars; — 

That hate each other for a eong. 
And do the'r little best to bite, 

That pinch their brothers in the throng, 
And scratch the very dead for spite ;— 

And strive to make an inch of room 
¥ov their sweet selves, and can not hear 

The sullen Lethe rolling down 
On them and their*, and all things here ;- 

When one small tonch of Charity 
Could lift them nearer Godlike State, 

Than if the crowded Orb should cry 
Like those that cried Diana great. 

And /too talk, and lose the touch 

I talk of. Snrely, after all, 
The noblest answer nnto such 

Is kindly silence when thev bawl. 



Puii.li, Munli 1,1846, sig 



STANZAS.* 

What time I wasted youthful hours. 
One of the shining wingrd powers, 
Sliow'd me vast clift's with crown of towers 

As towards the gracious light I bow'd. 
They seem'd high palaces and proud, 
Hid now and then with sliding cloud. 

He said, "The labor is not small; 

Yet winds the pathway free to all: 

Take care thou dost not fear to fall 1" 



SONNET 

TO WILLIAM CIIARLEB MACREADV.T 

Fareweli,, Macready, since to-night we part 
Full-handed thunders often have contest 
Thy power, well-used to move the public breast. 

We thank thee with one voice, and from the heart 

Farewell, Macready ; since this night we part. 
Go, take thine honors home: rank with the best, 
Garrick, and statelier Kenible, and the rest 

Who made a nation purer thro' their art. 

Thine is it, that our Drama did not die. 
Nor flicker down to brainless pantomime. 
And those gilt gauds men-children swarm to sec. 

Farewell, Macready ; moral, grave, sublime. 

Our Shakspcare's bland and universal eye [thee. 
Dwells pleased, thro' twice a hundred years, on 



BRITONS, GUARD YOUR OWN.]: 

EtsE, Britons, rise, if manhood be not dead . 
The world's last tempest darkens overhead , 

The Pope has bless'd him ; 

The Church caress'd him ; 
lie triumjjhs ; may be we shall stand alone. 

Britons, guard your own. 

His ruthless host is bought with plunder'd gold, 
By lying priests the peasants' votes controU'u. 

All freedom vanished, 

The true men banish'd. 
He triumphs ; may be we shall stand alone. 

Britons, guard your own. 

Peace-lovers we — sweet Peace we all desire — 
Peace-lovers we. — but who can trust a liar? — 

Peace-lovers, haters 

Of shameless traitors, 
We hate not France, but this man's heart of stone 

Britons, guard your own. 

We hate not France, but France has lost her voice. 
This man is France, the man they call her choice. 

By tricks and spying, 

By craft and lying, 
And murder was her freedom overthrown. 

Britons, guard your own. 

" Vive I'Empcreur" may follow bye and bye : 
"God save the Queen" is here a truer cry. 

God save the Nation, 

The toleration. 
And the free speech that makes a Briton known. 

Britons, guard your own. 

Rome's dearest daughter now is captive France, 
The Jesuit laughs, and reckoning on his chance, 

* Tlie Keepsake, )S51. ' 

t Read by Mr. .loliii Forster ftt a dinner given to Mr. Macrca<l\ 
Marili 1. IS.Tl.im liis retirement from the stage. 
t Tlie Eiuniiner, '.S5S. 



THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852.— HANDS ALL ROUND. 



2G9 



Would unrelenting, 
Kill all dissenting, 
Till we were left to tight for truth alone. 
Britons, guard your owu. 

Call home your ships across Biscayan tides. 
To blow the battle from their oaken sides. 

VVliy waste they yonder 

Their idle thunder? 
Why stay they there to guard a foreign throne? 

Seamen, guard your own. 

'/Ve were the best of marksmen long ago. 

We won old battles with our strength, the bow. 

Now practice, yeomen. 

Like those bowmen. 
Tit your balls fly as their shafts have flown. 

Yeomen, guard your owu. 

Ilis soldier-ridden Highness might incline 
To take Sardinia, Belgium, or the Rhine: 

Shall we stand idle, 

Nor seek to bridle 
Ilis rude aggressions, till we stand alone? 

Make their cause your own. 

Sh'iuid he land here, and for one hour prevail, 
There must no man go back to bear the tale: 
No man to bear it- 
Swear it ! we swear it ! 
Although we tight the banded world alone, 
We swear to guard our own. 



THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852.* 

Mv lords, we heard you speak; you told us all 
That England's honest censure went too far ; 

That our free press should cease to brawl, 
Not sting the tiery Frenchman into war. 

It was an ancient privilege, my lords, 

To fling whate'er we felt, not fearing, into words. 

We love not this French God, this child of Hell, 
Wild War, who breaks the converse of the wise; 

But though we love kind Peace- so well. 
We dare not, e'en by silence, sanction lies. 

It might safe be our censures to withdraw ; 

And yet, my lords, not well ; there is a higlier law. 

As long as we remain, we must speak free. 
Though all the storm of Europe on ns break; 

No little German state are we. 
But the one voice in Europe ; we must speak ; 

That if to-night our greatness were struck dead. 

There might remain some record of the things wg 
said. 

If you be fearful, then must we be bold. 

Our Britain can not salve a tyrant o'er. 
Better the waste Atlantic roll'd 

On her and us and ours forevermore. 
What ! have we fought for freedom from our prime, 
At last to dodge and palter with a public crime? 

Shall we fear him? our own we never feared. 

From our first Charles by force we wrung our 
claims, 
Prick'd by the Papal spur, we rear'd. 

And flung the burthen of the second James. 
I say we never fear'd ! and as for these, [seas. 

We broke them on the laud, we drove them on the 

And you, my lords, you make the people muse, 
In doubt if you be of our Barons' breed— 



' The Examiner, 1852, and siijned " Merlin." 



Were those your sires who fought at Lewes ? 

Is this the manly strain of Runuyniede f 
O fall'u nobility, that, overawed. 
Would lisp in houey'd whispers of this monstrous 
fraud. 

H'c' feel, at least, that silence here were sin. 

Not ours the fault if we have feeble hosts^ 
If easy patrons of their kin 

Have left the last free race with naked coasts ! 
They knew the precious things they had to guard : 
For us, we will not spare the tyrant one hard word. 

Though niggard throats of Manchester may bawl, 
What England was, shall her true sons forget? 

We are not cotton-spinners all. 
But some love England, and her honor yet. 

And these in our ThermopyliE shall siand, 

And hold against the world the honor of the land. 



HANDS ALL ROUND. 

First drink a health, this solemn night, 

A health to England, every guest ; 
That man's the best cosmopolite 

Who loves his native country best. 
May Freedom's oak for ever live 

With stronger life from day to day; 
That man's the best Conservative 

Who lops the mouldered branch away. 
Hands all round 1 

God the tyrant's hope confound ! 
To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends. 

And the great name of England, round and round. 

A health to Europe's honest men ! 

Heaven guard them from her tyrants' jails I 
From wr(mgcd Poerio's noisome den. 

From ironed limbs and tortured nails! 
We curse the crimes of southern kings. 

The Russian whips and Austrian rods — 
We likewise have our evil things ; 

Too much we make our Ledgers, Gods. 
Yet hands all round ! 

God the tyrant's cause confound'. 
To Europe's better health we drink, my friends, 

And the great name of England, round and rouudj 

W^hat health to France, if France be she, 

Whom martial progress only charms? 
Yet tell her — better to be free 

Than vanquish all the world in arms. 
Her frantic city's flashing heals 

But fire, to blast, the hopes of men. 
Why change the titles of your streets ? 

You fools, you'll w'ant them all again. 
Hands all round ! 

God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To France, the wiser France, we drink, my friends, 

And the great name of England, round and round: 

Gigantic daughter of the West, 

We drink to thee across the flood. 
We know thee and we love thee best. 

For art thou not of British blood ? 
Should war's mad blast again be blown, 

Permit not thcni the tyrant powers 
To fight thy mother here alone. 

But let tliy broadsides roar Avith ours. 
Hands all round ! 

God the tyrant's cause confound! 
To our dear kinsmen of the West, my friends, 

And the great name of England, round and round 

O rise, our strong Atlantic sous, 
When war against our freedom springs; 



270 



THE WAH.— "MY LIFE IS FULL OF WEARY DAYS." 



O speiik to Europu thiougli your guns! 

They can be uuclerstoi)d by kini;?. 
Yon must not mix ovir Queen with tlios3 

That wish to keep tlieii- people fools; 
Oui- freedom's foemeii are her foes, 

She comprehends the rncc she rules. 
Hands all round ! 

God the tyrant's cause confound ! 
To our dear kinsman in tlie West, my friends, 

And the great name of England, round aud round. 



THE WAR. 

TnF.RE is a sound of thunder afar, 

Storm in tlie South that darkens the clay, 
Storm of battle and thnnder of war. 
Well, if it do not roll our way. 
Form! form! Riflemen, form! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storsn ! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form! 

Be not deaf to the sound that warns! 

Be not guU'd by a despot's plea! 
Ave tigs of thistles, or grapes of thorns 2 
How should a despot set men free ? 
Form ! form ! Riflemen, form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm 2 
Riflemen, ritiemen, riflemen, form! 

Let yonr Reforms for a moment go. 

Look to your bntts and take good aims. 
Better a rotten borough or Svi, 
Than a rotten fleet or a city in flames! 
Form! form! Riflemen, form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the stcu'm* 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, formi 

Form, be ready to do or die ! 

Form in Freedom's name and the Queen's! 
True, that we have a faithful ally. 
But only the Devil knows what he means. 
Form ! form ! Riflemen, form ! 
Ready, be ready to meet the storm ! 
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form ! 



18G5-18G6. 

I STO0T> on a tower in the wet, 

And New Year and Old Year met. 

And winds were roaring and blowing; 

And I said, "O years that meet in teai's, 

Have ye aught that is worth the knowing? 

Science enough and exploring, 

Wanderers coming and going, 

Matter enough for deploring, 

But aught that is worth the knowing?" 

Seas at my feet were flowing, 

Vl'aves on the shingle ponring, 

Old Year roaring and blowing. 

And New Year blowing and roaring. 



ON A SPITEFUL LETTER. 

Hkue, it is here — the close of the year, 

And with it a spiteful letter. 
My fame in song has done him much wrong 

For himself has done much better. 

foolish bard, is your lot so hard, 
If men neglect your jiages? 

1 think not much of yours or of mine : 
I hear the roll of the ages. 



This fall'u leaf, isn't fame as brief? 

My rhymes may have been the Btrongetc 
Yet hate me not, but abide your lot; 

I hist but a moment longer. 

O faded leaf, isn't fame as brief? 

What room is here for a hater? 
Yet the yellow leaf hates the gieener leaf. 

For it hangs one moment later. 

Greater than I— isn't that your cay ? 

And I shall live to see it. 
Well, if it be so, so it is, ynu know; 

And if it be so — so be it! 

O summer leaf, isn't life as brief? 

But this is the time of hollies. 
And my heart, my heart is an evergreen ; 

I liate the spites and the follies. 



ALEXANDER. 

Waheioh of God, whose strong right arm debased 

The throne of Persia, when her Satrap bled 

At Issus by the Syrian gates, or fled 

Beyond the Memmian naphtha-pits, disgraced 

For ever — thee (tliy patliway sand-erased) 

Gliding with equal crowns two serpents led 

Joyful to that palm-planted founiain-fed 

Ammonian Oasis in the waste. 

There In a silent shade of laurel brown 

Apart the Ohamian Oracle divine 

Shelter'd his nnapproached mysteries: 

High things were spoken there, unhanded down ; 

Only they saw thee from the secret shrine 

Returning with hot cheek aud kindled eyes. 



THE BRIDESMAID. 

BRiDKBMAiP, Qvo the happy knot was tied, 
Tliine eyes so wept that they could hardly see; 
Tliy sister smiled and said, " No tears for me ! 
A happy bridesmaid makes a hajipy bride." 
And then, the couple standing side by side, 
Love lighted down between them full of glee, 
And over his left shoulder laugh'd at thee, 
"O liappy bridesmaid, make a happy bride." 
And all at once a pleasant truth I Icarn'd, 
For while the tender service made thee weep, 

1 loved tliee for the tear thou couldst not hide, 
And prest thy hand, and knew the press returiiM, 
And thought, "Sly life is sick of single sleep: 

O happy bridesmaid, make u happy bride 1" 



I. 

Mv life is full of weary days, 

But good things have not kept aloof, 
Nor wander'd into other ways: 

I have not lack'd thy mild reproof, 
Nor golden largess of thy praise. 

And now shake hands across the brink. 
Of that deep grave to which I go : 

Shake hands once more: I cannot sink 
pi) far— far down, but I sliall know 
Thy voice, aud answer from below. 



ADDITIONAL VERSES.— LINES. 



271 



II. 

When in the chukiiess ovei- me 
The foui'-hiiuded mole shall scrape, 

Plant thou uo dusky cyjiiess-tree, 
Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape, 
But pledge ine iu the flowing grape. 

And when the sappy field and wood 
Grow green beneath the showery gray. 

And rugged barks begin to bud, 
And thro' damp holts uew-flush'd with may, 
Ring sudden scritches of the jay. 

Then let wise Nature work her will. 
And on my clay her darnel grow; 

Come only, when the days are still. 
And at my headstone whisper low, 
And tell me if the woodbines blow. 



SONNET.* 

Thbre are three things which fill my heart with sighs. 

And steep my soul iu laughter (when I view 

Fair maiden-forms moving like melodies) — 

Dimples, roselips, and eyes of any hue. 

There are three things beneath the blessed skies 

For which I live — black eyes and brown and blue: 

I hold them all most dear ; but oh ! black eyes, 

I live and die, and only die iu you. 

Of late such eyes looked at me — while I mused. 

At sunset, underneath a shadowy plane. 

Iu old Bayona nigh the southern sea — 

From an half-open lattice looked at me. 

I saw no more — only those eyes — confused 

And dazrzled to the heart with glorious pain. 



ADDITIONAL VERSES 

To "God Save the Queen !" written for the marrhige of the Princess 
Koyal of England with the Crown Prince of Prussia, Jan. 25, 1S5S. 

God bless our Prince and Bride ! 
God keep their lands allied, 

God save the Queen ! 
Clothe them with righteousness, 
Crown them with happiness. 
Them with all blessings bless, 

God save the Queen ! 

Fair fall this hallow'd hour, 
Farewell, our England's flower, 

God save the Queen ! 
Farewell, first rose of May ! 
Let both the peoples say, 
God bless thy marriage-day, 

God bless the Queen ! 



SONNET ON CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY. 

Thrrkfoue your Halls, your ancient Colleges, 
Your portals statued with old kings and queens. 
Your gardens, myriad-volumed libraries. 
Wax-lighted chapels, and rich carven screens, 
Your doctors, and your proctors, and your deans 
Shall not avail you, when the Day-beam sports 
New-risen o'er awakeu'd Albion — No ! 
Nor yet your solemn organ-pipes that blow 
Melodious thunders thro' your vacant courts 
At morn and eve— because your manner sorts 
Not with this age wherefrom ye stand apart — 
Because the lips of little children preach 
Against you, you that do profess to teach 
And teach us nothing, feeding not the heart. 



LINES, t 
Here often, when a child, I lay reclined, 

I took delight in this locality. 
Here stood the infiint Ilion of the mind, 

And here the Grecian ships did seem to be. 
And here again I come, and only find 

The drain-cut levels of the marshy lea, — 
Gray sandbanks, and pale sunsets,— dreary wind. 

Dim shores, dense rains, and heavy-clouded sea ! 



Yorkshire Literary Annual, 1832. 

18 



t Manchester Athenaeum Album, 1850. 




DRAMATIS PERSONS, 



Queen Mary. 

Philip (King of Naples and Sicily, afterward King of Spain). 

The Princess Elizabeth. 

Reginald Pole (Cardinal and Papal Legate). 

Simon Renard (Spanish Ambassador). 

Le Sieur de Noailles (French Ambassador). 

Thomas Cranmer (Archbishop of Canterburj'). 

Sir Nicholas Heath (Archbishop of York; Lord Chancellor after Gardiner). 

Edward Courtenat (Earl of Devon). 

Lord William Howard (afterward Lord Howard and Lord High Admiral). 

Lord Williams of Thame. 

Lord Paget. 

Lord Petre. 

Stephen Gardiner (Bishop of Winchester and Lord Chancellor). 

Edmund Bonner (Bishop of London). 

Thomas Thirlbt (Bishop of Ely). 

Sir Thomas Wtatt ) ,^ ,. t i ^ 

„ ^ „ } (Insurrectionary Leaders). 

Sir Thomas Stafford > ^ 

Sir Ralph Bagenhall. 

Sir Robert Southwell. 

Sir Henry Bedingfield. 

Sir William Cecil. 

Sir Thomas White (Lord Mayor of London). 

The Duke of Alva ) , .. ,. ^n -i- ^ 

„ „ T, , (attending on Philip). 

The Count de Feria \ ^ * '^' 

Peter Martyr. 

Father Cole. 

Father Bourne. 

Villa Garcia. 

Soto. 

Captain Brett ) ,,„ , n-nr ... 

c (Adherents of Wyatt). 

Antony Knyvett ) ^ -^ ' 

Peters (Gentleman of Lord Howard). 

Roger (Servant to Noailles). 

William (Servant to Wyatt). 

Steward of Household to the Princess Elizabeth. 

Old Nokes and Nokes. 

Marchioness of Exeter (Mother of Courtenay). 

Lady Clarence ^ 

Lady Magdalen Dacres >- (Ladies in waiting to the Queen). 

Alice / 

Maid op Honor to the Princess Elizabeth. 

Tm^ [ ^"^^^ Country Wives). 

Lords and other Attendants, Members of the Privy Council, Members of Parliament, two Gen- 
tlemen, Aldermen, Citizens, Peasants, Ushers, Messengers, Guards, Pages, etc. 



QUEEN MARY. 



273 



QUEEN MARY. 

ACT I, 



SCENE I. — ALDGATE RICHLY DECO- 
RATED. 

Crowk. Maeshalmen. 

Marshalman. Stand back, keep a clear laue. When 
will her Majesty pass, sayst thou? why, now, eveu 
now ; wherefore draw back your heads and your horns 
before I break them, and make what noise you will 
with your tongues, so it be not treason. Long live 
Queen Mary, the lawful and lefjitimate daughter of 
Harry the Eighth ! Shout, knaves ! 

Citizens. Loug live Queen Mary ! 

First Citizen. That's a hard word, legitimate ; what 
does it meau ? 

Second Citizen. It means a bastard. 

Third Citizen. Nay, it means true-born. 

First Citizen. Why, didn't the Parliament make her 
a bastard? 

Second Citizen. No ; It was the Lady Elizabeth. 

Third Citizen. That was after, man ; that was after. 

First Citizen. Then which is the bastard ? 

Second Citizen. Troth, they be both bastards by Act 
of Parliament and Council. 

Third Citizen. Ay, the Parliament can make every 
true-born man of us a bastard. Old Nokes, can't it 
make thee a bastard? thou shouldst know, for thou 
art as white as three Christmasses. 

Old Nokes (dreamily). Who's a-passiug ? King Ed- 
ward or King Richard ? 

Third Citizen. No, old Nokes. 

Old Xokes. It's Harry ! 

Third Citizen. It's Queen Mary. 

Old Nokes. The blessed Mary's a-passing I 

[Falls on his knees. 

Nokes. Let father alone, my masters ! he's past your 
questioning. 

Third Citizen. Answer thou for him, then I thou art 
'no such cockerel thyself, for thou was born i' the tail 
end of old Harry the Seventh. 

Nokes. Eh ! that was afore bastard-making began. 
I was born true man at five in the forenoon i' the tail 
of old Harry, and so they can't make me a bastard. 

Third Citizen. But if Parliament can make the 
Queen a bastard, why, it follows all the more that they 
can make thee one, who art fray'd i' the knees, and 
out at elbow, and bald o' the back, and bursten at the 
toes, and down at heels. 

Nokes. I was born of a true man and a ring'd wife, 
and I can't argue upon it ; but I and my old woman 
'ud burn upon it, that would we. 

Marshalman. What are you cackling of bastardy 
under the Queen's own nose? I'll have you flogg'd 
and burnt too, by the Rood I will I 

First Citizen. He swears by the Rood. Whew ! 

Second Citizen. Hark '. the trumpets. 

IThe Procession passes, Maky and Ei.izauetii rid- 
ing side by side, and disappears under the (jate. 

Citizens. Long live Queen Mary ! Down with all 
traitors ! God save her Grace ; and death to North- 
umberland ! [Exeunt. 

Manent Two Genti.kmen. 

First Gentleman. By God's light, a noble creature, 
right royal. 



Second Gentleman. She looks comelier than ordina- 
ry to-day ; but to my mind the Lady Elizabeth is the 
more uoble and royal. 

First Gentleman. I mean the Lady Elizabeth. Did 
you hear (I have a daughter in her service who re- 
ported it) that she met the Queen at Waiistead with 
five hundred horse, and the Queen (tho' some say 
they be much divided) took her hand, called her sweet 
sister, and kiss'd not her alone, but all the ladies of 
her following. 

Second Gentleman. Ay, that was in her hour of joy, 
there will be plenty to sunder aud uusister them 
again ; this Gardiner for one, who is to be made Lord 
Chancellor, and will pounce like a wild beast out of 
his cage to worry Cranmer. 

First Gentleman. And furthermore, my daughter 
said that when there rose a talk of the late rebellion, 
she spoke even of Northumberland pitifully, and of 
the good Lady -Jane as a poor innocent child who had 
but obeyed her father ; and furthei-niore, she said that 
no one in her time should be burnt for heresy. 

Second Gentleman. Well, sir, I look for happy times. 

First Gentleman. There is but one thing against 
them. I know not if you "know. 

Second Gentleman. I suppose you touch upon the 
rumor that Charles, the master of the world, has of- 
fer'd her his son Philip, the Pope and the Devil. I 
trust it is but a rumor. 

First Gentleman. She is going now to the Tower to 
loose the prisoners there, and among them Courte- 
nay, to be made Earl of Devon, of royal blood, of 
splendid feature, whom the council and all her people 
wish her to marry. May it be so, for we are many of 
us Catholics, but few Papists, and the Hot Gospellers 
will go mad upon it. 

Second Gentleman. Was she not betroth'd in her 
babyhood to the Great Emperor himself? 

First Gentleman. Ay, but he's too old. 

Second Gentleman. And again to her cousin Regi- 
nald Pole, now Cardinal, but I hear that he too is full 
of aches and broken before his day. 

First Gentleman. O, the Pope could dispense with 
his Cardinalate, and his achnge, and his break ige, if 
that were all : but will you not follow the procession ? 

Second Gentleman. No, I have seen enough for this 
day. 

First Gentleman. Well, I shall follow; if I can get 
near enough I shall judge with my o^yn eyes whether 
her Grace incline to this splendid scion of Plantage- 
net. [Exeunt. 



SCENE II.— A ROOM IN LAMBETH 
PALACE. 

Ckanmer. 
Cranmer. To Strasburg, Antwerp, Frankfort, Zu- 
rich, Worms, 
Geneva, Basle— our bishops from their sees 
Or fled, they say, or flying— Poinet, Barlow, 
Bale, Scory, Coverdalo ; besides the Deans 
Of Christchurch, Durham, Exeter, and Wells— 
Ailmer and Btillingham, aud hundreds more; 
So they report: I shall be left alone. 
No: Hooper, Ridley, Latimer will not fly. 



274 



QUEEN MARY. 



Enter Peter Maktve. 

Peter Martyr. Fly, Craumer! were there nothing 
else, your name 
Stands tii-st of those who sign'd the Letters Patent 
That gave her royal crown to Lady Jane. 

Cranmer. Stand first it may, but it was written 
last: 
Those that are now her Privy Council, sign'd 
Before me: nay, the judges had pronounced 
That our young Edward might bequeath the crown 
Of England, putting by his father's will. 
Yet I stood out, till Edward sent for me. 
The wan boy-king, with his fast-fading eyes 
Fixt hard on mine, his frail transparent hand, 
Damp with the sweat of death, and griping mine, 
Whisper'd me, if I loved him, not to yield 
His Church of England to the Papal wolf 
And Mary ; then I could no more — I sign'd. 
Nay, for bare shame of inconsistency, 
She cannot pass her traitor council by, 
To make me headless. 

Peter Martyr. That might be forgiven. 

I tell you, fly, my Lord. You do not own 
The bodily presence in the Eucharist, 
Their wafer and perpetual sacrifice : 
Your creed will be your death. 

Cranmer. Step after step, 

Thro' many voices crying right and left. 
Have I climb'd back into the primal church. 
And stand within the porch, and Christ with me: 
My flight were such a scandal to the faith. 
The downfall of so many simple souls, 
I dare not leave my post. 

Peter Martyr. But you divorced 

Queen Catharine and her father ; hence, her hate 
Will burn till you are buru'd. 

Cranmer. I can not help it. 

The Canonists and Schoolmen were with me. 
" Thou Shalt not wed thy brother's wife."— 'Tis writ- 
ten, 
" They shall be childless."' True, Mary was born, 
But France would not accept her for a bride 
As being born from incest ; and this wrought 
Upon the King; and child by child, you know, 
Were momentary sparkles out as quick 
Almost as kindled ; and he brought his doubts 
And fears to me. Peter, I'll swear for him 
He dul believe the bond incestuous. 
But wherefore am I trenching on the time 
That should already have seen your steps a mile 
From me and Lambeth ? God be with you ! Go. 

Peter Martyr. Ah, but how fierce a letter you wrote 
against 
Their superstition when they slander'd you 
For setting up a mass at Canterbury 
To please the Queen. 

Cranmer. It was a wheedling monk 

Set up the mass. 

Peter Martyr. I know it, my good Lord. 
But you so bubbled over with hot terms 
Of Satan, liars, blasphemy. Antichrist, 
She never will forgive you. Fly, my Lord, fly ! 

Cranmer. I wrote it, and God grant me p()wer to 
burn! 

Peter Martyr. They have given me a safe conduct : 
for all that 
I dare not st.Ty. I fear, I fear, I see yon. 
Dear friend, for the last time; farewell, and fly. 

Cranmer. Fly and farewell, and let me die the 
death [.Exit Peter Martyr. 

Enter Old Servant. 
O, kind and gentle master, the Queen's Oflicers 
Are here in force to take you to the Tower. 
Cranmer. Ay, gentle friend, admit them. I will 
go. 
I thank my God it is too late to fly. [Exeunt. 



SCENE III.— ST. PAUL'S CROSS. 
Father Bourne in the pulpit. A croivd. Marchion- 
ess OF Exeter, Couktenay. The Sieur de No- 
ailles and hits man Roger in front of the stage. 
Hubbub, 
h'oailles. Hast thou let fall those papers in the palace? 
Roger. Ay, sir. 

Noailles. " There will be no peace for Mary till Eliz- 
abeth lose her head." 
Roger. Ay, sir. 

Noailles. And the other. " Long live Elizabeth the 
Queen !" 
Roger. Ay, sir ; she needs must tread upon them. 
Noailles. Well. 

These beastly swine make such a grunting here, 
I cannot catch what Father Bourne is saying. 

Roger. Quiet a moment, my masters ; hear what the 
shaveling has to say for himself. 
Crowd. Hush — hear. 

Bourne. — and so this unhappy land, long divided in 
itself, and sever'd from the faith, will return into the 
one true fold, seeing that our gracious Virgin Queen 
hath— 
Crowd. No pope I no pope ! 

Roger {to thotse about him, mimicking Bourne). 
— hath sent for the holy legate of the holy father the 
Pope, Cardinal Pole, to give us all that holy absolu- 
tion which— 
First Citizen. Old Bourne to the life ! 
Second Citizen. Holy Absolution ! holy Inquisition '. 
Third Citizen. Down with the Papist ! [Hubbub. 
Bourne, —and now that your good bishop, Bonner, 
who hath lain so long uuder bonds for the faith — 

[Hubbub. 
Noailles. Friend Roger, steal thou in among the 
crowd, 
And get the swine to shout Elizabeth. 
Yon gray old Gospeller, sour as midwinter, 
Begin with him. 

Roger (goes). By the mass, old friend, we'll have no 
pope here while the Lady Elizabeth lives. 

Gospeller. Art thou of the true faith, fellow, that 
swearest by the mass? 

Roger. Ay, that am I, new converted, but the old 
leaven slicks to my tongue yet. 

First Citizen. He says right ; by the mass, we'll have 
no mass here. 

Voices of the Crotcd. Peace 1 hear him ; let his own 
words damn the Papist. From thine own mouth I 
judge thee— tear him down. 

Bourne, —and since our Gracious Queen, let me call 
her our second Virgin Mary, hath begun to re-edify 
the true temple — 

First Citizen. Virgin Mary ! we'll have no virgins 
here— we'll have the Lady Elizal)eth ! 

[Swords are drawn, a knife is hurled, and sticks in 
the pulpit. The mob throng to the pulpit stairs. 
Marchioness of Exeter. Son Courteuay, wilt thou see 
the holy father 
Murder'd before thy face ? Up, son, and save him ! 
They love thee, and thou canst not come to harm. 
Courtenay (in the pulpit). Shame, shame, my mas- 
ters ! are you English-born, 
And set yourselves by hundreds against one ? 
Crowd. A Courtenay ! a Courtenay ! 

[A train of Spanish servants crosses at the back 
of the stage. 
Noailles. These birds of passage come before their 
time: 
Stave otr the crowd upon the Spaniard there. 

Roger. My masters, yonder's fatter game for you 
Than this old gaping gurgoyle : look you there— 
The Prince of Spain coming to wed our Queen ! 
After him, boys ! and pelt him from the city. 

[They seize stones and follow the Spaniards. Exe- 
unt on the other side Maeouioness or Exeteb and 
Attendants. 



QUEEN MARY. 



275 



Noailles {to Roger). Stand from me. IfElizabeth lose 
her head — 
That makes for France. 
And if her people, anger'd therenpon, 
Arise against her and dethrone the Queen — 
That makes for France. 
And if I breed confusion anyway — 
That makes for France. 

Good-day, my Lord of Devon ; 
A bold heart yours to beard that raging mob ! 

Courtenay. My mother said, Go uj) ; and up I went. 
I knew they would not do me any wrong, 
For I am mighty popular with them, Noailles. 

Noailles. You look'd a king. 

Courtenay. Why not ? I am king's blood. 

Noailles. And in the whirl of change may come to be 
one. 

Courtenay. Ah ! 

Noailles. But does your gracious Queen entreat you 
king-like? 

Courtenay. 'Fore God, I think she entreats me like 
a child. 

Noailles. You've but a dull life in this Maiden court, 
I fear, my Lord. 

Courtenay. A life of nods and yawns. 

Noailles. So you would honor my poor house to- 
night. 
We might enliven you. Divers honest fellows, 
The Duke of Suffolk lately freed from prison, 
Sir Peter Carew and Sir Thomas Wyatt, 
Sir Thomas Stafford, and some more— we play. 

Courtenay. At what ? 

Noailles. The game of chess. 

Courtenay. The game of chess ! 

I can play well, and I shall beat you there. 

Noailles. Ay, bst we play with Henry, King of France, 
And certain of his Court. 

His Highness makes his moves across the channel. 
We answer him with ours, and there are messengers 
That go between us. 

Courtenay. Why, such a game, sir, were whole years 
a playing. 

Noailles. Nay; not so long I trust. That all depends 
Upon the skill and swiftness of the players. 

Courtenay. The King is skilful at it ? 

Noailles. Veiy, my Lord. 

Courtenay. And the stakes high ? , 

Noailles. But nf)t beyond your means. 

Courtenay. Well, I'm the first of players. I shall 
win. 

Noailles. With our advice and in our company, 
And so you well attend to the King's moves, 
I think you may. 

Courtenay. When do you meet? 

Noailles. To-night. 

Courtenay {aside). I will be there ; the fellow's at 
his tricks- 
Deep— I shall fathom him. {Aloud.) Good-morning, 
Noailles. lExit Couktenay. 

Noailles. Good -day, my Lord. Strange game of 
chess ! a King 
That with her ow]i pawns plays against a Queen, 
Whose play is all to find herself a King. 
Ay ; but this fine blue-blooded Courtenay seems 
Too princely for a pawn. Call him a Knight, 
That, with an ass's, not an horse's head, 
Skips every way, from levity or from fe;ir. 
Well, we shall use him somehow, so that Gardiner 
And Simon Renard spy not out our game 
Too early. Roger, thinkest thou that any one 
Suspected thee to be my man ? 

Roger. Not one, sir. 

Noailles. No 1 the disguise was perfect. Let's away ! 

lExeunt. 



SCENE IV.— LONDON. A ROOM IN THE 
PALACE. 

EnzABETn. Enter Couktenay. 

Courtenay. So yet am I, 
Unless my friends and mirrors lie to me, < 
A goodlier-looking fellow than this Philip. 
Pah! 

The Queen is ill advised: shall I turn traitor? 
They've almost talk'd me into it : yet the word 
Affrights me somewhat ; to be such a one 
As Harry Boliugbroke hath a lure in it. 
Good now, my Lady Queen, tho' by your age, 
And by your looks, you are not worth the having, 
Yet by your crown you are. [.Seeing Elizaheth. 

The Princess there ? 
If I tried her and la — she's amorous. 
Have we not heard of her in Edward's time, 
Her freaks and frolics with the late Lord Admiral? 
I do believe she'd yield. I should be still 
A party iu the state ; and then, who knows — 

Elizabeth. What are you musing on, my Lord of 
Devon ? 

Courtenay. Has not the Queen— 

Elizabeth. Done what, sir ? 

Courtenay. —Made you follow 

The Lady Suffolk and the Lady Lennox; 
You, 
The heir presumptive ? 

Elizabeth. Why do you ask ? you know it. 

Courtenay. You needs must bear it hardly. 

Elizabeth. No, indeed ! 

I am utterly submissive to the Queen. 

Courtenay. Well, I was musing upon that ; the Queen 
Is both my foe and yours : we should be friends. 

Elizabeth. My Lord, the hatred of another to us 
Is no true bond of friendship. 

Courtenay. Might it not 

Be the rough preface of some closer bond ? 

Elizabeth. My Lord, you late were loosed from out 
the Tower, 
Where, like a butterfly in a chrysalis. 
You spent your life ; that broken, out you flutter 
Thro' the new world, go zigzag, now would settle 
Upon this flower, now that ; but all things here 
At C(mrt are known ; you have solicited 
The Queen, and been rejected. 

Courtenay. Flower, she ! 

Half faded 1 but you, cousin, are fresh and sweet 
As the first flower no bee has ever tried. 

Elizabeth. Are you the bee to try me ? why, but now 
I called you butterfly. 

Courtenay. You did me wronc,, 

I love not to be called a butteifly: 
Why do you call me butterfly? 

Elizabeth. Why do you go so gay then ? 

Courtenay. Velvet and gold. 
This dress was made me as the Earl of Devon 
To take my seat in ; looks it not right royal ? 

Elizabeth. So royal that the Queen forbade you 
wearing it. 

Courtenay. I wear it then to spite her. 

Elizabeth. My Lord, my Lord ; 
I see you in the Tower again. Her Majesty 
Hears you affect the Prince — prelates kneel to yon. — 

Courtenay. I am the noblest blood iu Europe, Mad- 
am, 
A Courtenay of Devon, and her cousin. 

Elizabeth. She hears you make your boast that after 
all 
She means to wed you. Folly, my good Lord. 

Courtenay. How folly? a great party in the state 
Wills me to wed her. 

Elizabeth. Failing her, my Lord, 

Doth not as great a party in the state 
Will you to wed me? 

Courtenay. Even so, fair lady. 



276 



QUEEN MARY. 



Elizabeth. You know to flatter ladies. 

Courtenay. Nay, I meant 

True matters of the heart. 

Elizabeth. My heart, my Lord, 

Id no great party in the state as yet. 

Courtenay. Great, said you ? nay, you shall be great. 
I love you, 
Lay my life in your hands. Can you be close? 

Elizabeth. Can you, my Lord ? 

Courtenay, Close as a miser's casket. 

Listen : 

The King of France, Noailles the ambassador, 
The Duke of Suffolk and Sir Peter Carew, 
Sir Thomas Wyatt, I myself, some others, 
Have sworn this Spanish marriage shall not be. 
If Mary will not hear us— well — conjecture — 
Were I in Devon with my wedded bride. 
The people there so worship nie — Your ear ; 
Yon shall be Queen. 

Elizabeth. You speak too low, my Lord ; 

I cannot hear you. 

Courtenay. I'll repeat it. 

Elizabeth. No ! 

Stand further off, or you may lose your head. 

Courtenay. I have a head to lose for your sweet 
sake. 

Elizabeth. Have you, my Lord? Best keep it for 
your own. 
Nay, pout not, cousin. 
Not many friends are mine, except indeed 
Among the many. I believe you mine ; 
And so you may continue mine, farewell, 
And that at once. 

Enter Maey, behind. 

Mtfry. Whispering — leagued together 

To bar me from my Philip. 
Courtenay. Pray — consider — 

Elizabeth (seeing the Queen). Well, that's a uoble 
horse of yours, my Lord. 
I trust that he will carry you well to-day, 
And heal your headache. 
Courtenay. You are wild; what head- 

ache? 
Heartache, perchance ; not headache. 
Elizabeth (aside to Courtenay). Are you blind? 

[Courtenay sees the Queen ayid exit. Exit Maky. 

Enter Lord William Howard. 

Howard. Was that my Lord of Devon ? Do not you 
Be seen in corners with my Lord of Devon. 
He hath fallen out of favor with the Queen. 
She fears the Lords may side with you and him 
Against her marriage; therefore is he dangerous. 
And if this Prince of fluff and feather come 
To woo you, niece, he is dangerous every way. 

Elizabeth. Not very dangerous that way, my good 
uncle. 

Howard. But your own state is full of danger here. 
The disaffected, heretics, reformers, 
Look to you as the one to crown their ends. 
Mix not yourself with any plot, I jiray you ; 
Nay, if by chance you hear of any such. 
Speak not thereof— no, not to your best friend. 
Lest you should be confounded with it. Still — 
Perinde ac cadaver — as the priest says. 
You know your Latin — quiet as a dead body. 
What was my Lord of Devon telling yon ? 

Elizabeth. Whether he told me any thing or not, 
I follow your good counsel, gracious uncle. 
Quiet as a dead body. 

Howard. You do right well. 

I do not care to know ; but this I charge you. 
Tell Courtenay nothing. The Lord Chancellor 
(I count it as a kind of virtue in him. 
He hath not many), as a mastiff dog 
May love a puppy cur for no more reason 
Than that the twain have been tied up together, 



Thus Gardiner— for the two were fellow-prisoners 
So many years in yon accursed Tower — 
Hath taken to this Courtenay. Look to it, niece, 
lie hath no fence when Gardiner questions him ; 
All oozes out ; yet him — because they know him 
The last White Rose, the last Plantagenet 
(Nay, there is Cardinal Pole, too), the people 
Claim as their natural leader — ay, some say 
That you shall marry him, make him King belike. 

Elizabeth. Do they say bo, good uncle ? 

Howard, Ay, good niece ! 

You should be plain and open with me, niece. 
You should not play upon me. 

Elizabeth. No, good uncle. 

Enter Gardiner. 

Gardiner. The Queen would see your Grace upon 
the moment. 

Elizabeth. Why, my Lord Bishop ? 

Gardiner. I think she means to counsel your with- 
drawing 
To Ashridge, or some other country house. 

Elizabeth. Why, my Lord Bishop? 

Gardiner. I do but bring the message, know no 
more. 
Your Grace will hear her reasons from herself. 

Elizabeth. 'Tis mine own wish fulfill'd before the 
word 
Was spoken, for in truth I had meant to crave 
Permission of her Highness to retire 
To Ashridge, and pursue my studies there. 

Gardiner. Madam, to have the wish before the 
word 
Is man's good Fairy — and the Queen is yours. 
I left her with rich jewels in her hand, 
Whereof 'tis like enough she means to make 
A farewell present to your Grace. 

Elizabeth. My Lord, 

I have the jewel of a loyal heart. 

Gardiner, I doubt it not. Madam, most loyal. 

iBows low and exit. 

Howard, See, 

This comes of parleying with my Lord of Devon. 
Well, well, you must obey ; and I myself 
Believe it will be better for your welfare. 
Yoiir time will come. 

Elizabeth, I think my time will come. 

ITucle, 

I am of sovereign nature, that I know. 
Not to be quell'd ; and I have felt within me 
Stirrings of some great doom when God's just hour 
Peals — but this lierce old Gardiner — his big bald- 
ness. 
That irritable forelock which he rubs. 
His buzzard beak and deep-incavern'd eyes 
Half fright me. 

Howard. You've a bold heart ; keep It so. 

He cannot touch you save that yon turn traitor ; 
And so take heed I pray you— you are one 
Who love that men should smile upon you, niece. 
They'd smile you into treason — some of them. 

Elizabeth, I spy the rock beneath the smiling 
sea. 
But if this Philip, the proud Catholic prince. 
And this bald priest, and she that hates me, seek. 
In that lone house, to practise on iny life, 
By jioison, Are, shot, stab — 

Howard, They will not, niece. 

MiuB is the fleet and all the power at sea— 
Or will be in a moment. If they dared 
To harm you, T would blow this Philip and all 
Your trouble to the dogstarand the devil. 

Elizabeth. To the Pleiads, uncle ; they have lost a 
sister. 

Howard. But why say that ? what have yon done to 
lose her ? 
Come, come, I will go with you to the Qneeu. 

[,Exeunt. 



QUEEN MARY. 



277 



SCENE v.— A ROOM IN THE PALACE. 

Maky, with Philip's miniature, Ai.ioe. 

Mary {kissing the miniature). Most goodly, king- 
like, and an emperor's son, — 
A king to be, — is he not noble, girl ? 

Alice. Goodly enough, your Grace, and yet, me- 
thinks, 
I have seen goodlier. 

Mary. Ay ; some waxen doll 
Thy baby eyes have rested on, belike ; 
All red and white, the fashion of our land. 
But my good mother came (God rest her soul) 
Of Spain, and I am Spanish in myself, 
And in my likings. 

A lice. By your Grace's leave 

Your royal mother came of Spain, but took 
To the English red and white. Your royal father 
(For so they say) was all pure lily and rose 
In his youth, and like a lady. 

Mary. O just God! 

Sweet mother, you had time and cause enough 
To sicken of his lilies and his roses. 
Cast off, betray'd, defamed, divorced, forlorn ! 
And then the King — that traitor past forgiveness, 
The false archbishop fawning on him, married 
Tbe mother of Elizabeth— a heretic 
Ev'n as she is ; but God hath sent me here 
To take such order with all heretics 
That it shall be, before I die, as tho' 
My father and my brother had not lived. 
What wast thou saying of this Lady Jane, 
Now in the Tower ? 

Alice. Why, Madam, she was passing 

Some chapel down In Essex, and with her 
I.ady Anne Wharton, and the Lady Anne 
Bow'd to the Pyx ; but Lady Jane stood up 
Stiff as the very backbone of heresy. 
And wherefore bow ye not, says Lady Anne, 
To him within there who made heaven and earth ? 
I cannot, and I dare not, tell your Grace 
What Lady Jane replied. 

Mary. But I will have it. 

Alice. She said — pray pardon me, and pity her— 
She hath hearken'd evil counsel — ah ! she said, 
The baker made him. 

Mary. Monstrous ! blasphemous ! 

She ought to burn. Hence, thou (,Exit Alice). No — 

being traitor 
Her head will fall : shall it ? she is but a child. 
We do not kill the child for doing that 
His father whipt him into doing — a head 
So full of grace and beauty ! would that mine 
Were half as gracious '. O, my lord to be, 
My love, for thy sake only. 
I am eleven years older than he is. 
But will he care for that? 
No, by the Holy Virgin, being noble, 
But love me only : then the bastard sprout, 
My sister, is far fairer than myself. 
Will he be drawn to her? 
No, being of the true faith with myself. 
Paget is for him — for to wed with Spain 
Would treble England— Gardiner is against him ; 
The Council, people, Parliament against him ; 
But I will have him ! My hard father hated me; 
My brother rather hated me than loved ; 
My sister cowers and hates me. Holy Virgin, 
Plead with thy blessed Son ; grant nie my prayer ; 
Give me my Philip ; and we two will lead 
The living waters of the Faith again 
Back thro' their widow'd channel here, and watch 
The parch'd banks rolling incense, as of old. 
To heaven, and kindled with the palms of Christ ! 



Who waits, sir? 



Enter Ushek. 



Usher, Madam, the Lord Chancellor. 
Mary. Bid him come in. {Enter Gaedinbr.) Good- 
morning, my good Lord. [.Exit Usher. 

Gardiner. That every morning of your Majesty 
May be most good, is every morning's prayer 
Of your most loyal subject, Stephen Gardiner. 

Mary. Come you to tell me this, my Lord? 

Gardiner, And more. 

Your people have begun to learn your worth. 
Your pious wish to pay King Edward's debts, 
Your lavish household curb'd, and the remission 
Of half that subsidy levied on the people. 
Make all tongues praise and all hearts beat for you. 
I'd have you yet more loved : the realm is poor. 
The exchequer at neap-ebb : we might withdraw 
Part of our garrison at Calais. 

Mary. Calais ! 

Our one point on the main, the gate of France ! 
I am Queen of England ; lake mine eyes, mine heart, 
But do not lose me Calais. 

Gardiner. Do not fear it. 

Of that hereafter. I say your Grace is loved. 
That I may keep you thus, who am your friend 
And ever faithful counsellor, might I speak ? 

Mary. I can forespeak your speaking. Would I 
marry 
Prince Philip, if all England hate him ? That is 
Your question, and I front it with another : 
Is it England, or a jjarty ? Now, your answer. 

Gardiner. My answer is, I wear beneath my dress 
A shirt of mail : my house hath been assaulted, 
And when I walk abroad, the populace. 
With lingers pointed like so many daggers. 
Stab me in fancy, hissing Spain and Philip ; 
And when I sleep, a hundred men-at-arms 
Guard my poor dreams- for England. Men would 

murder me. 
Because they think me favorer of this marriage. 

Mary. And that were hard upon you, my Lord 
Chancellor. 

Gardiner. But our young Earl of Devon— 

Mary. EarlofDevou? 

I fieed him from the Tower, placed him at Court ; 
I made him Earl of Devon, and— the fool- 
He wrecks his health and wealth on courtesans, 
And rolls himself in carrion like a dog. 

Gardiner. More like a school-boy that hath broken 
bounds, 
Sickening himself with sweets. 

Mary. I will not hear of hira. 

Good, then, they will revolt : but I am Tudor, 
And shall control them. 

Gardiner. I will help you, Madam, 

Even to the utmost. All the church is grateful. 
You have ousted the mock priest, repulpited 
The shepherd of St. Peter, raised the Rood again. 
And brought us back the mass. I am all thanks 
To God and to your Grace : yet I know well. 
Your people, and I go with them so far. 
Will brook nor Pope nor Spaniard here to play 
The tyrant, or in commonwealth or church. 

Mary (showing the picture). Is this' the face of one 
who plays the tyrant ? 
Peruse it ; is it not goodly, ay, and gentle ? 

Gardiner. Madam, methinks a cold fiice and a 
haughty. 
And when your Highness talks of Conrtenay— 
Ay, true— a goodly one. I would his life 
Were half as goodly {aside). 

Mary. What is that you mutter ? 

Gardiner, Oh, Madam, take it bluntly ; marry Phil- 
ip. 
And be stepmother of a score of sons ! 
The prince is known in Spain, in Flanders, ha! 
For Philip— 

Mary. You offend us ; you may leave us. 

You see thro' warping glasses. 

Gardiner, If your Majesty>— 



278 



QUEEN MARY. 



Mary. I have sworu upon the body aud blood of 
Christ 
I'll none but Philip. 

Gardiner. Hath your Grace so sworn ? 

Mary. Ay, Simon Reuard knows it. 

Gardiner. News to me ! 

It then remaiT)8 for your poor Gardiner, 
So you still care to trust him somewhat less 
Than Simon Renard, to compose the eveut 
In some such form as least may harm your Grace. 

Mary. I'll have the scandal sounded to the mud. 
I know it a scandal. 

Gardiner. All my hope is now 

It may be found a scandal. 

Mary. You offend ns. 

Gardiner (aside). These princes are like children, 
must be pbysick'd. 
The bitter in the sweet. I have lost mine ofQce, 
It may be, thro' mine honesty, like a fool. [.Exit. 

Enter Ushee. 

Mary. Who waits ? 

Usher. The ambassador from France, your Grace. 

Mary. Bid him come in. Good-morning, Sir de 
Noailles. [Exit Ushek. 

yoailles (entering). A happy morning to your Maj- 
esty. 

Mary. Aud I should some time have a happy morn- 
ing; 
I have had none yet. What says the King, your mas- 
ter? 

XoaiUes. Madam, my master hears with much alarm 
That you may marry Philip, Priuce of Spain — 
Foreseeing, with whatever uuwillinguess, 
That if this Philip be the titular king 
Of England, and at war with him, your Grace 
Aud kingdom will be suck'd into the war, 
Ay, tho' you long for peace: wherefore, my master, 
If but to prove your Majesty's good-will, 
Would fain have some fresh treaty drawn between 
you. 

Mary. Why some fresh treaty ? wherefore should I 
doit? 
Sir, if we marry, we shall still maintain 
All former treaties with his Majesty. 
Our royal word for that ! aud your good master, 
Pray God he do not be the first to break them, 
Must be content with that ; and so, farewell. 

yoailles {going, returns). I would your answer had 
been other, Madam, 
For I foresee dark days. 

Mary. And so do I, sir ; 

Your master works against me iu the dark. 
I do believe he holp Northumberland 
Against me. 

yoailles. Nay, pure phantasy, your Grace. 
Why should he move against you ? 

Mary. Will you hear why ? 

Mary of Scotland,— for I have not own'd 
My sister, and I will not, — after me 
Is heir of England ; aud my royal father, 
To make the crown of Scotland one with ours. 
Had mark'd her for my brother Edward's bride 
Ay, but your King stole her a babe from Scotland 
In order to betroth her to your Dauphin. 
See then : 

Mary of Scotland, married to your Dauphin, 
Would make our England, France ; 
Mary of England, joining hands with Spain, 
Would be too strong for France. 
Yea, were there issne born to her, Spain and we, 
One crown, might rule the world. There lies your fear. 
That is your drift. You play at hide and seek. 
Show me your faces 1 

Noailles. Madam, I am amazed: 

French, I must needs wish all good things for France. 
That must be pardon'd me ; but I protest 
Your Grace's policy hath a farther flight 



Than mine into the future. We but seek 
Some settled ground for peace to stand upon. 

Mary. Well, we will leave all this, sir, to our Council. 
Have you seen Philip ever ? 

Noailles. Only once. 

Mary. Is this like Philip ? 

Noailles. Ay, but nobler-looking. 

Mary. Hath he the large ability of the Emperor ? 

Noailles. Ni), surely. 

Mary. I can make allowance for thee, 

Thou speakest of the enemy of thy King. 

Noailles. Make no allowance for the naked truth. 
He is every way a lesser man than Charles ; 
Stone-hard, ice-cold — no dash of daring iu him. 

Mary. If cold, his life is pure. 

Noailles. Why (smiling), no, indeed. 

Mary. Sayst thon ? 

Noailles. A very wanton life indeed {smiling). 

Mary. Your audience is concluded, sir. 

[Exit Noailles. 
You cannot 
Learn a man's nature from his natural foe. 

Enter Usueu. 
Who waits ? 

Usher. The ambassador of Spain, your Grace. 

[Exit. 

Enter Simon Ren4rd. 

Mary. Thou art ever welcome, Simon Renard. Hast 
thou 
Brought me the letter which thine Emperor promised 
Long since, a formal offer of the hand 
Of Philip ? 

Renard. Nay, your Grace, it hath not reach'd me. 
I know not w'herefore — some mischance of flood. 
And broken bridge, or spavin'd horse, or wave 
And wind at their old battle; he must have written. 

Mary. But Philip never writes me one poor word, 
Which in his absence had been all my wealth. 
Strange iu a wooer ! 

Benard. Yet I know the Priuce, 

So your kiug-parliameut sufter him to land, 
Yearns to set foot upon your island shore. 

Mary. God change the pebble which his kingly foot 
First presses into some more costly stone 
Thau ever blinded eye. I'll have one mark it 
And bring it me. I'll have it burnish'd firelike ; 
I'll set it round with gold, with pearl, with diamond. 
Let the great angel of the church come with him ; 
Stand on the deck and spread his wings for sail 1 
God lay the waves and strew the storms at sea, 
Aud here at laud among the people. O Reuard, 
I am much beset, I am almost in despair. 
Paget is ours. Gardiner perchance is ours ; 
But for onr heretic Parliament — 

Renard. O Madam, 

You fly your thoughts like kites. My master, Charlef 
Bade you go softly with your heretics here, 
Until your throne had ceased to tremble. Then 
Spit them like larks, for aught I care. Besides, 
When Henry broke the carcass of your church 
To pieces, there were many wolves among you 
Who dragg'd the scatter'd limbs into their den. 
The Pope would have you make them render these ; 
So would your cousin, Cardinal Pole ; ill counsel ! 
These let them keep at present ; stir not yet 
This matter of the church lands. At his coming 
Your star will rise. 

Mary. My star ! a baleful one. 

I see but the black night, aud hear the wolf. 
What star? 

Renard. Your star will be your princely son, 
Heir of this England and the Netherlands ! 
And if your wolf the while should howl for more 
We'll dust him from a bag of Spanish gold. 
I do believe, I have dusted some already. 
That, soon or late, your Parliament is ours 



QUEEN MARY. 



279 



Mary. Why do they talk so foully of your Prince, 
Renard? 

Renard. The lot of princes. To sit high 
Is to be lied about. 

Mary. They call him cold, 

Haughty, ay, worse. 

Renard. Why, doubtless, Philip shows 

Some of the bearing of your blue blood — still 
All within measure — uay, it well becomes him. 

Mary. Hath he the large ability of his father? 

Renard. Nay, some believe that he will go beyond him. 

Mary. Is this like him ? 

Renard. Ay, somewhat ; but your Philip 

Is the most princelike Prince beneath the sun. 
This is a daub to Philip. 

Mary. Of a pure life ? 

Renard. As an angel among angels. Yea, by Heaven, 
The text — Your Highness knows it, "Whosoever 
Looketh after a woman," would not graze 
The Prince of Spain. You are happy in him there, 
Chaste as your Grace ! 

Mary. I am happy in him there. 

Renard. And would be altogether happy. Madam, 
So that your sister were but look'd to closer. 
You have sent her from the Court, but then she goes, 
I warrant, not to hear the nightingales. 
But hatch ynu some new treason in the woods. 

Mary. We have our spies abroad to catch her trip- 
ping. 
And then if caught, to the Tower. 

Renard. The Tower 1 the block. 

The word has turn'd your Highness pale ; the thing 
Was no such scarecrow in your father's time. 
I have heard, the tongue yet quiver'd with the jest 
When the head leapt — so common ! I do think 
To save your crown that it must come to this. 

Mary. I love her not, but all the people love her, 
And would not have her even to the Tower. 

Renard. Not yet ; but your old traitors of the Tower, 
Why, when you put Northumberland to death, 
The sentence having past upon them all, 
Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, Guildford Dudley. 
Ev'n that young girl who dared to wear your crown ? 

Mary. Dared, no, not that ; the child obey'd her fa- 
ther. 
Spite of her tears her father forced it on her. 

Renard. Good Madam, when the Roman wish'd to 
reign, 
He slew not him alone who wore the purple. 
But his assessor in the throne, perchance 
A child more innocent than Lady Jane. 

Mary. I am English Queen, not Roman Emperor. 

Renard. Yet too much mercy is a want of mercy, 
And wastes more life. Stamp out the fire, or this 
Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn the throne 
Where you should sit with Philip: he will not come 
Till she be gone. 

Mary. Indeed, if that were true- 

But I must say ftirewell. I am somewhat faint 
With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I am not Queen 
Of mine own heart, which every now and then 
Beats me half dead : yet stay, this golden chain— 
My father on a birthday gave it me. 
And I have broken with my father — take 
And wear it as memorial of a morning 
Which found me full of foolish doubts, and leaves me 
As hopeful. 

Renard (aside). Whew— the folly of all follies 
Is to be love-sick for a shadow. (Alotid.) Madam, 
This chains me to your service, not with gold. 
But dearest links of love. Farewell, and trust me, 
Philip is yours. {.Exit. 

Mary. Mine— but not yet all mine. 

Enter Usuee. 

Usher. Your Council is iu session, please your Maj- 
esty. 



Mary. Sir, let them sit. I must have time to breathe. 
No, say I come. {Exit V sues..) 1 won by boldness once. 
The Emperor counsell'd me to fly to Flanders. 
I would not ; but a hundred miles I rode, 
Sent out my letters, call'd my friends together, 
Struck home, and won. 

And when the Council would not crown me — thought 
To bind me first by oaths I could not keep. 
And keep with Christ and conscience — was it bold- 
ness 
Or weakness that won there? when I, their Queen, 
Cast myself down upon my knees before them, 
And those hard men brake into woman tears, 
Ev'n Gardiner, all amazed, and iu that passioa 
Gave me my crown. 

Enter Alice. 

Girl, hast thou ever heard 
Slanders against Prince Philip in our Court? 
Alice. What slanders? I, your Grace; no, never. 
Mary. Nothing ? 

Alice. Never, your Grace. 

Mary. See that you neither hear them nor repeat ! 
Alice {aside). Good Lord ! but I have heard a thou- 
sand such. 
Ay, and repeated them as often — mum ! 
Why comes that old fox-Fleming back again ? 

Enter Renaeu. 

Renard. Madam, I scarce had left your Grace's pres- 
ence 
Before I chanced upon the messenger 
Who brings that letter which we waited for — 
The formal offer of Prince Philip's hand. 
It craves an instant answer. Ay or No? 

Mary. An instant. Ay or No ! the Council sits. 
Give it me quick. 

Alice {stepjnng before her). Your Highness ia all 
trembling. 

Mary. Make way. lExit into the Council Chamber, 

Alice. O Master Renard, Master Renard, 

If you have falsely painted your fine Prince ; 
Praised, where you should have blamed him, I pray 

God 
No woman ever love you. Master Renard. 
It breaks my heart to hear her moan at night 
As tho' the nightmare never left her bed. 

Renard. My pretty maiden, tell me, did you ever 
Sigh for a beard ? 

Alice. That's not a pretty question. 

Renard. Not prettily put? I mean, my pretty maid- 
en, 
A pretty man for such a pretty maiden. 

Alice. My Lord of Devon is a pretty man. 
I hate him. Well, but if I have, what then ? 

Renard. Then, pretty maiden, you should know that 
whether 
A wind be warm or cold, it serves to fan 
A kindled fire. 

Alice. According to the song. 

** His friends would praise Jiim, I believed 'em, 
His foes would blame him, and I scorned 'em ; 
His friends — as angels I received 'em, 
His foes— the Devil had suborn'd 'em." 

Renard. Peace, pretty maiden. 
I hear them stirring in the Council Chamber. 
Lord Paget's "Ay" is sure— who else? and yet, 
They are all too much at odds to close at once 
In one full-throated No I Her Highness comes. 

Enter Mary 

Alice. How deathly pale 1— a chair, your Highness. 
[Bringing one to the Queen, 
Renard. Madam, 

The Council f 
Mary. Ay 1 My Philip is all mine. 

{Sinks into chair, half fainting. 



280 



QUEEN MARY. 



ACT IL 



SCENE I.— ALLINGTON CASTLE. 

SiE Thomas Wyatt. 
Wyatt, I do not hear from Carew or the Duke 
Of Suffolk, aud till then I should not move. 
The Duke hath goue to Leicester ; Carew stirs 
In Devou : that liue porcelain CoUrteiiay, 
Save that he fears he might be crack'd iu using, 
([ have known a semi-madman in my time 
So faucy-ridd'n) should be iu Devou too. 

Enter William. 

News abroad, William ? 

Wiliiam. None so new, Sir Thomas, and none so old, 
Sir Thomas. !No new news that Philip comes to wed 
Mary ; no old uews that all men hate it. Old Sir Thom- 
as would have hated it. The bells are ringing at Maid- 
stone. Doesn't your worship hear? 

Wyatt. Ay, for the saints are come to reign again. 
Most like it is a sainfs-day. There's no call 
As yet for me ; so in this pause, before 
The mine be fired, it were a pious work 
To string my father's sonnets, left about 
Like loosely-scatter'd jewels, in fair order, 
And head them with a lamer rhyme of mine, 
To grace his memory. 

William. Ay, why not, Sir Thomas ? He was a fine 
courtier, he ; Queen Anne loved him. All the women 
loved him. I loved him, I was iu Spain with him. I 
couldn't eat in Spain, I couldn't sleep in Spain. I hate 
Spain, Sir Thomas. 

Wyatt. But thou could'st drink iu Spain if I remem- 
ber. 

William. Sir Thomas, we may grant the wine. Old 
Sir Thomas .always granted the wine. 

Wyatt. Hand me the casket with my father's son- 
nets. 

William. Ay — sonnets — a fine courtier of the old 
Court, old Sir Thomas. lExit. 

Wyatt. Courtier of many courts, he loved the more 
His own gray towers, plain life and letter'd peace, 
To read and rhyme iu solitary fields. 
The lark above, the nightingale below, 
Aud answer them in song. The sire begets 
Not half his likeness in the son. I fail 
"Where he was fullest: yet— to write it down. 

iHe lorites. 
Re-enter William. 

William. There ?'.s news, there is news, and no call 
for sonnet-sorting now, nor for sonnet-making either, 
but ten thousand men on Penenden Heath all calling 
after your worship, and your worship's name heard 
into Maidstone market, and your worship the first 
man iu Kent aud Christendom, for the world's up, and 
your worship a-top of it. 

Wyatt. Inverted .^sop— mountain out of mouse. 
Say for ten thousand teu— and pothouse knaves, 
Brain-dizzied with a draught of morning. ale. 

Enter Antony Knyvktt. 

William. Here's Antony Kuyvctt. 

Knyvett. Look yon, Master Wyatt, 

Tear up that woman's work there. 

Wyatt. No ; not these, 

Dumb children of my father, that will sptfak 
When I and thou and all rebellions lie 
Dead bodies without voice. Song flies, you know, 
For ages 



Knyvett. Tut, your sonnet's a flyiug aut, 
Wiug'd for a moment. 

Wyatt, Well, for mine own work, 

Uearing the paper. 
It lies there in sis pieces at your feet ; 
For all that I can carry it in my head. 

Knyvett. If you can carry your head upon your shoul- 
ders. 

Wyatt. I fear you come to carry it ofi" my shoulders, 
Aud sonnet-making's safer. 

Knyvett. ^Tiy, good Lord, 

Write you as many sonnets as you will. 
Ay, but not now ; what, have yon eyes, ears, brains ? 
This Philip and the black-faced swarms of Spain, 
The hardest, cruellest people iu the world, 
Come locusting upon us, eat us up. 
Confiscate lands, goods, money — Wyatt, Wyatt, 
Wake, or the stout old island will become 
.A rotten limb of Spain. They roar for you 
On Peneudeu Heath, a thousand of them— more- 
All arm'd, waiting a leader ; there's no glory 
Like his who saves his country : and you sit 
Sing-songing here; but, if I'm any judge, 
By God, you are as poor a poet, Wyatt, 
As a good soldier. 

Wyatt. Ton as poor a critic 

As an honest friend: you stroke me on one cheek, 
Buffet the other. Come, you bluster, Antony ! 
You know I know all this. I must not move 
Until I hear from Carew and the Duke. 
I fear the mine is fired before the time. 

Knyvett (showing a piaper). But here's some He- 
■ brew. Faith, I half forgot it. 
Look ; can you make it English f A str.ange youth 
Suddenly thrust it on me, whisper'd, "Wyatt," 
Aud, whisking round a corner, show'd his back 
Before I read hie face. 

Wyatt. Ha! Courten ay's cipher. [Reads. 

" Sir Peter Carew fled to France : it is tliouglit the Duke will be 
taken. I am with you still , but, for appearance' sake stay with the 
Queen. Gardiner knows, but the Council are all at odds, aud the 
Queen hath no force for resistance. Move, if you move, at ouce." 

Is Peter Carew fled ? Is the Duke taken ? 
Down scabbard, and out sword ! aud let Rebellion 
Roar till throne rock, aud crown fall. No; not that; 
But we will teach Queen Mary how to reigu. 
Who are those that shout below there f 

Knyvett. Why, some fifty 

That follow'd me from Penenden Heath in hope 
To hear you speak. 

Wyatt. Open the window, Knyvett ; 

The mine is fired, and I will speak to them. 

Men of Kent— England of England— you that have 
kept your old customs upright, while all the rest ot 
England bow'd theirs to the Norman,— The cause that 
hat1i brought us together is not the cause of a county 
or a shire,' but of this England, in whose crown our 
Kent is the fairest jewel. Philip shall not wed Mary ; 
and ye have called me to be your leader. I know Spain. 
I have been there with my father ; I have seen them 
in their own land ; have uL'uked the haughtiness of 
their nobles ; the cruelty of their priests. If this mau 
marry our Queen, however the Council and the Com- 
mons may fence round his power with restriction, he 
will be King, King of England, my masters; and the 
Queen, and the laws, and tlie people, his slaves. What ? 
shall we have Spain on the throne aud iu the Parlia- 
ment; Spaiu in the pulpit aud on the laW-bench; 



QUEEN MARY. 



281 



Spain iu all the great offices of state ; Spain in our 
ships, iu our forts, iu our houses, in our beds ? 

Crowd. No 1 no ! no Spain. 

William. No Spain iu our beds — that were worse 
than all. I have been there with old Sir Thomas, and 
the beds I know. I hate Spain. 

A Peamnt. But, Sir Thomas, must we levy war 
against the Queen's Grace ? 

Wyatt. No, my friend ; war for the Queen's Grace 
— to save her from herself and Philip — war against 
Spain. And think not we shall be alone — thousands 
will flock to us. The Council, the Court itself, is on 
our side. The Lord Chancellor himself is on our side. 
The King of Prance is with us ; the King of Denmark 
is with us; the world is with us— war against Spaiu '. 
And if we move not now, yet it will be known that 
we have moved ; and if Philip come to be King, O 
my God! the rope, the rack, the thumb-screw, the 
stake, the fire. If we move not now, Spaiu moves, 
bribes our nobles with her gold, and creeps, creeps 
snake-like about our legs till we cannot move at all ; 
and ye know, my masters, that wherever Spaiu hath 
ruled she hath wither'd all beneath her. Look at the 
New World— a paradise made hell ; the red man, that 
good helpless creature, starved, maim'd, flogg'd, 
flay'd, buru'd, boil'd, buried alive, worried by dogs; 
and here, nearerhome, the Netherlands, Sicily, Naples, 
Lombardy. I say no more — only this, their lot is 
yours. Forward to London with me I forward to Lon- 
don 1 If ye love your liberties or your skins, forward 
to Loudon ! 

Crowd. Forward to London I A Wyatt ! a Wyatt ! 

Wyatt. But first to Rochester, to take the guns 
From out the vessels lying in the river. 
Then on. 

A Peasant. Ay, but I fear we be too few. Sir Thomas. 

Wyatt. Not many yet. The world as yet, my frieud. 
Is not half-waked ; but every parish tower 
Shall clang and clash alarum as we pass, 
And pour along the laud, and swoll'n and fed 
With indraughts and side-currents, iu full force 
Eoll upon London. 

Crowd. A Wyatt ! a Wyatt ! Forward ! 

Knyvett. Wyatt, shall we proclaim Elizabeth? 

Wyatt. I'll think upon it, Knyvett. 

Knyvett. Or Lady Jane ? 

Wyatt. No, poor soul ; no. 
Ah, gray old castle of Alington, green field 
Beside the biimming Medvvay, it may chauce < 

That I shall never look upon you more. 

Knyvett. Come, now, you're sounetting again. 

Wyatt. Not I. 

I'll have my head set higher in the state ; 
Or— if the Lord God will it— on the stake. lExeunt. 



SCENE II.— GUILDHALL. 

SiE Thomas White (the Lord Mayor), Loed William 
Howard, Sib Ralph Baoenhall, Aldekmen and 
Citizens. 

White. I trust the Queen comes hither with her 
Guards. 

Hoivard. Ay, all iu arms. 
{Several of the Citizens move hastily out of the hall. 
Why do they hurry out there? 

White. My Lord, cut out the rotten from your apple. 
Your apple eats the better. Let them go. 
They go like those old Pharisees in John 
Convicted by their conscience, arrant cowards, 
Or tamperers with that treason out of Kent. 
When will her Grace be here? 

Howard. In some few minutes. 

She will address your guilds and companies, 
I have striven in vain to raise a man for her. 
But help her in this exigency, make 



Your city loyal, and be the mightiest man 
This day in England. 

White. I am Thomas White. 

Few things have fail'd to which I set my will. 
I do my most and best. 

Howard. Yon know that after 

The Captain Brett, who went with your train bauds 
To fight with Wyatt, had gone over to him 
With all his nieu, the Queen in that distress 
Sent Cornwallis and Hastings to the traitor, 
Feigning to treat with him about her marriage — 
Know too what Wyatt said. 

White. He'd sooner be, 

While this same marriage question was being argued, 
Trusted than trust— the scoundrel — and demanded 
Possession of her person aud the Tower. 

Howard. And four of her poor Council too, my Lord, 
As hostages. 

White. I know it. What do and say 

Your Council at this hour? 

Howard. I will trust you. 

We fling ourselves on you, my Lord. The Council, 
The Parliament as well, are troubled waters ; 
And yet like waters of the fen they know not 
Which way to flow. All hangs on her address. 
And upon you, Lord Mayor. 

White. How look'd the city 

When now you past it ? Quiet ? 

Howard. Like our Conncil, 

Your city is divided. As we past. 
Some hail'd, some hiss'd us. There were citizens 
Stood each before his shut-up booth, aud look'd 
As grim and grave as from a funeral. 
And here a knot of ruffians all in rags. 
With execrating execrable eyes, 
Glared at the citizen. Here was a young mother, 
Her face on flame, her red hair aU blown back. 
She shrilling "Wyatt," while the boy she held 
Mimick'd and piped her " Wyatt," as red as she 
In hair and cheek ; and almost elbowing her. 
So close they stood, another, mute as death. 
And white as her own milk; her babe in arms 
Had felt the faltering of his mother's heart. 
And look'd as bloodless. Here a pious Catholic, 
Mumbling and mixing up in his scared prayers 
Heaven and earth's Maries ; over his bow'd shoulder 
Scowl'd that world-hated and world-hating beast, 
A haggard Anabaptist. Many such groups. 
The names of Wyatt, Elizabeth, Courtenay, 
Nay the Queen's right to reign — 'fore God, the 

rogues — 
Were freely buzz'd among them. So I say 
Your city is divided, and I fear 
One scruple, this or that way, of success 
Would turn it thither. Wherefore noAv the Queen, 
Iu this low pulse and palsy of the state, 
Bade me to tell you that she counts on you 
And on myself as her two hands; on you, 
In your own city, as her right, my Lord, 
For you are loyal. 

White. Am I Thomas Wyhite ? • 

One word before she comes. Elizabeth — 
Her name is much abused among these traitors. 
Where is she? She is loved by all of us. 
I scarce have heart to mingle in this matter. 
If she should be mishandled? 

Hoivard. No ; she shall not. 

The Queen had written her word to come to court. 
Methought I smelt out Renard in the letter, 
And, fearing for her, sent a secret missive. 
Which told her to be sick. Happily or not, 
It found her sick indeed. 

White. God send her well ; 

Here comes her Royal Grace. 

Enter Guards, Maey. and GartiinkI!. Sin Thomas 
White leads her to a raised scat on the da'i'i. 

White. I, the Lord Mayor, and these our companies 



282 



QUEEN MARY. 



Aud pnilds of Loudon, gathered here, beseech 
Your Highness to accept our lowliest thauks 
For your most priucely presence ; aud we pray 
That we, your true and loyal citizens, 
From your own royal lips, at once may know 
The wherefore of this coining, and so learn 
Your Royal will, and do it. — I, Lord Mayor 
or London, and our guilds aud companies. 

Mary. In mine own person am I come to you, 
To tell you what iudeed ye see and know. 
How traitorously these rebels out of Kent 
Have made strong head against ourselves and you. 
They would not have me wed the Priuce of Sjiain ; 
That was their pretext — so they spake at first — 
But we sent divers of our Council to them, 
Aud by their answers to the question ask'd, 
It doth appear this marriage is the least 
Of all their quarrel. 

They have betray'd the treason of their hearts: 
Seek to possess our person, hold our Tower, 
Place aud displace our councillors, and use 
Both us aud them according as they will. 
Now what am I ye know right well— your Queen ; 
To whom, when I was wedded to the realm 
And the realm's laws (the spousal ring whereof, 
Not ever to be laid aside, 1 wear 
Upon this finger), ye did promise full 
Allegiance and obedience to the death. 
Ye know my father was the rightful heir 
Of England, and his right came down to me, 
Corrol)orate by your acts of Parliament: 
Aud as ye were most loving unto him. 
So doubtless will ye show yourselves to me. 
Wherefore, ye will not brook that anyone 
Should seize our person, occupy our state. 
More specially a traitor so presumptuous 
As this same Wyatt, who hath tamper'd with 
A public iguorauce, and, under color 
Of such a cause as hath no color, seeks 
To bend the laws to his owu will, and yield 
Full scope to persons rascal aud forlorn. 
To make free spoil and havoc of your goods. 
Now as your Prince, I say, 
I, that was never mother, cannot tell 
How mothers love their children ; yet, methlnks, 
A prince as naturally may love his people 
As these their children ; and be sure your Queen 
So loves you, aud so loving, needs must deem 
This love by you returu'd as heartily; 
And thro' this common knot and bond of love. 
Doubt not they will be speedily overthrown. 
As to this marriage, ye shall uuderstand 
We made thereto no treaty of ourselves. 
And set no foot theretoward unadvised 
Of all our Privy Council ; furthermore. 
This marriage had the assent of those to whom 
The King, my ftuher, did commit his trust; 
Who not alone esteem'd it honorable. 
But for the wealth and glory of our realm. 
And all our loviug subjects, most expedient. 
As to myself, 

I am not so set on wedlock as to choose 
But where I list, nor yet so amorous 
That I must needs be husbanded ; I thank God, 
1 have lived a virgin, and I noway doubt 
But that, with God's grace, I can live so still. 
Yet if it might please God that I should leave 
Some fruit of mine own body after me. 
To be your king, ye would rejoice thereat, 
And it would be your comfort, as I trust; 
And truly, if I either thought or knew 
This marriage should bring loss or danger to you, 
My subjects, or impair in any way 
This royal stale of England, I would never 
Consent thereto, nor marry while I live; 
Moreover, if this marriage should not seem, 
Before our own High Court of Parliament, 
To be of rich advantage to our realm. 



■We will refrain, and not aloue from this. 

Likewise from any other, out of which 

Looms the least chance of peril to our realm. 

Wherefore be bold, and with your lawful Prince 

Stand fast against our enemies aud yours, 

Aud fear them not. I fear them not. My Lord, 

I leave Lord William Howard in your city. 

To guard aud keep you whole and safe from all 

The spoil and sackage aim'd at by these rebels, 

Who mouth and foam against the Priuce of Spain. 

Voices. Long live Queen Mary ! 

Down with Wyatt ! 

The Queen ! 

White. Three voices from our guilds and companies ! 
You are shy aud proud like Englishmen, my masters. 
And will not trust your voices. Understand : 
Your lawful Prince hath come to cast herself 
On loyal hearts aud bosoms, hoped to fall 
luto the wide-spread arms of fealty, 
And finds you statues. Speak at once— aud all ! 
For whom ? 

Our sovereign Lady by King Harry's will ; 
The Queen of England — or the Kentish Squire? 
I know you loyal. Speak ! in the name of God ! 
The Queen of England or the rabble of Kent? 
The reeking duugfork master of the mace ! 
Your havings wasted by the scythe aud spade — 
Your rights aud charters hobnail'd into slush — 
Your houses fired — your gutters bubbling blood — 

Acclamation. No! No! The Queen ! the Queeu I 

White. Your Highuess hears 

This burst and bass of lo3'al harmony. 
And how we each and all of us abhor 
The venomous, bestial, devilish revolt 
Of Thomas Wyatt. Hear us uow make oath 
To raise your Highuess thirty thousand men, 
And arm and strike as with one hand, and brush. 
This Wyatt from our shoulders, like a flea 
That might have leapt upon us unawares. 
Swear with me, noble fellow-citizens, all. 
With all your trades, and guilds, aud companies. 

Citizens. We s\vear ! 

Mary. We thank your Lordship and your loyal city. 
[Exit Mary, attended. 

White. I trust this day, thro' God, I have saved the 
crown. 

First A Iderman. Ay, so my Lord of Pembroke in 
command 
Of all her force be safe ; but there are doubts. 

Second Alderman. I hear that Gardiner, coniiUg 
with the Queen, 
And meeting Pembroke, bent to his saddle-bow, 
As if to win the man by flattering him. 
Is he so safe to fight upon her side f 

First Alderman. If not, there's no man safe. 

White. Yes, Thomas White. 

I am safe enough ; no man need flatter me. 

Second A Iderman. Nay, no man need ; but did yon 
mark our Queeu f 
The color freely play'd into her face, 
And the half sight which makes her look so stern, 
Seem'd, thro' that dim dilated world of hers, 
To read our faces ; I have never seen her 
So queenly or so goodly. 

White. Courage, sir. 

That makes or man or woman look their goodliest. 
Die like the torn fox, dumb, but never whine 
Like that poor heart, Northumberland, at the block. 

Bagenhall. The man had children, and he whinea 
for those. 
jNIethiuks most men are but poor-hearted, else 
Should we so doat on conrage, were it commoner? 
The Queen stands up, aud speaks for her owu self; 
Aud all men cry, she is queenly, she is goodly. 
Yet she's no goodlier; tho' my Lord Mayor here. 
By his owu rule, he hath been so bold to-day, 
Should look more goodly than the rest of us. 

White. Goodly? I feel most goodly heart aud hand. 



QUEEN MARY. 



283 



And strong to throw ten Wyatts and all Kent. 
Ha! ha I sir; bnt you jest; I love it: a jest 
In time of danger shows the pulses even. 
Be merry ! yet, Sir Ralph, you look but sad. 
I dare avouch you'd stand up for yourself, 
Tho' all the wnrld should bay like winter wolves. 

Bagenhall. Who knows ? the mau is proven by the 
hour. 

WJiite. The man should make the hour, not this the 
man ; 
And Thomas White will prove this Thomas Wyatt, 
And he will prove an Iden to this Cade, 
And he will play the Walworth to this Wat; 
Come, sirs, we prate ; hence all — gather your men — 
Myself must bustle. Wyatt comes to Southwark ; 
I'll have the drawbridge hewn into the Thames, 
And see the citizen arm'd. Good day ; good day. 

[Exit White. 

Bagenhall. One of much outdoor bluster. 

Howard. For all that, 

Most honest, brave, and skilful ; and his wealth 
A fountain of perennial alms — his fault 
So thoroughly to believe in his own self. 

Bagenhall. Yet thoroughly to believe in cue's own 
self. 
So one's own self be thorough, were to do 
Great things, my Lord. 

Howard. It may be. 

Bagenhall. I have heard 

One of your Council fleer and jeer at him. 

Hoioard. The uursery-cocker'd child will jeer at 
aught 
That may seem strange beyond his nursery. 
The statesman that shall jeer and fleer at men, 
Makes enemies for himself and for his king; 
And if he jeer not seeing the true man 
Behind his folly, he is thrice the fool ; 
And if he see the man and still will jeer. 
He is child and fool, and traitor to the state. 
Who is he? let me shun him. 

Bagenhall. Nay, my Lord, 

He is damn'd enough already. 

Howard. I must set 

The guard at Ludgate. Fare you well. Sir Ralph. 

Bagenhall. "Who knows?" I am for England. But 
who knows, 
That knows the Queen, the Spaniard, and the Pope, 
Whether 1 be for Wyatt, or the Queen ? [Exeunt. 



SCENE III.— LONDON BRIDGE. 

Enter Sik Tuomas Wyatt and Brktt. 

Wyatt. Brett, when the Duke of Norfolk moved 
against us 
Thou cried'st "a Wyatt," and, flying to our side, 
Left his all bare, for which I love thee, Brett. 
Have for thine asking aught that I can give, 
For thro' thine help we are come to London Bridge ; 
But how to cross it balks me. I fear we cannot. 

Brett. Nay, hardly, save by boat, swimming, or 
wings. 

Wyatt. Last night I climb'd into the gate-house, 
Brett, 
And scared the gray old porter and his wife. 
And then I crept along the gloom and saw 
They had hewn the drawbridge down into the river. 
It roll'd as black as death ; and that same tide 
Which, coming with our coming, seem'd to smile 
And sparkle like our fortune as thou saidest. 
Ran sunless down, and moan'd against the piers. 
But o'er the chasm I saw Lord William Howard 
By torchlight, and his guard ; four guns gaped at me. 
Black, silent mouths: had Howard spied me there 
And made them speak, as well he might have done, 
Their voice had left me none to tell you this. 
What shall we do ? 



Brett. On somehow. To go back 

Were to lose all. 

Wyatt. On over London Bridge 

We cannot: stay we cannot ; there is ordnance 
On the White To-.ver and on the Devil's Tower, 
And pointed full at Southwark ; we must round 
By Kingston Bridge. 

Brett. Ten miles about. 

Wyatt. Ev'n so. 

But I have notice from our partisans 
Within the city that they will stand by us 
If Ludgate can be reach'd by dawn to-morrow. 

Enter one of Wyatt's men. 
Man, Sir Thomas, I've found this paper, pray your 
worship read it ; I know not my letters ; the old priests 
taught me nothing. 

Wyatt (reacts). " Whosoever will apprehend the trai- 
tor Thomas Wyatt shall have a hundred pounds for 
reward." 
Man. Is that it ? That's a big lot of money. 
Wyatt. Ay, ay, my friend ; not read it? 'tis not writ- 
ten 
Half plain enough. Give me a piece of paper ! 

[ Writes " Tuomas Wyatt " large. 

There, any man can read that. [Sticks it in his cap. 

Brett. But that's foolhardy. 

Wyatt. No ! boldness, which will give my followers 

boldness. 

Enter Man with a prisoner. 

Man. We found him, your worship, a-plunderlng o' 
Bishop Winchester's house ; he says he's a poor gen- 
tleman. 

Wyatt. Gentleman, a thief! Go hang him. Shall 
we make 
Those that we come to serve our sharpest foes. 

Brett. Sir Thomas— 

Wyatt. Hang him, I say. 

Brett. Wyatt, but now you promised me a boon. 

Wyatt. Ay, und I warrant this fine fellow's life. 

Brett. Ev'n so ; he was my neighbor once in Kent. 
He's poor enough, has drunk and gambled out 
All that he had, and gentleman he was. 
We have been glad together; let him live. 

Wyatt. He has gambled for his life, and lost, hehangs. 
No,no,my word's my word. Take thy poor gentleman ! 
Gamble thyself at once out of my sight. 
Or I will dig thee with my dagger. Away ! 
Women and children ! 

Enter a Crowd of Women and Children. 

First Woman. O Sir Thomas, Sir Thomas ! pray you 
go away, Sir Thomas, or you'll make the White Tower 
a black 'un for us this blessed day. He'll be the death 
on us ; and you'll set the Divil's Tower a-spitting, and 
he'll smash all our bits o' things worse than Philip o' 
Spain. 

Second Woman. Don't ye now go to think that we 
be f(n- Philip o' Spain. 

Third Woman. No, we know that ye be come to kill 
the Queen, and we'll pray for you all on our bended 
knees. But o' God's mercy don't ye kill the Queen 
here. Sir Thomas ; look ye, here's little Dickon, and 
little Robin, and little Jenny — though she's but a side- 
cousin— and all on our knees, we pray you to kill the 
Queen further off, Sir Thomas. 

Wyatt. My friends, I have not come to kill the Queen 
Or here or there : I come to save you all. 
And I'll go further off. 

Crowd. Thanks, Sir Thomas, we be beholden to you, 
and we'll pray for you on our bended knees till our 
lives' end. 

Wyatt. Be happy, I am your friend. 

To Kingston, forward ! 
[Exeunt. 



284 



QUEEN MARY. 



SCENE IV.— ROOM IN THE GATEHOUSE 
OF WESTMINSTER PALACE. 

Maky, Alice, Gaedineb, Renaeu, Ladies. 

A lice. O madam, if Lord Pembroke should be false ? 
Mary. No, girl; most brave aud loyal, brave aud 
loyal. 
His breaking with Northumberlaud broke Northum- 
berland. 
At the park gate he hovers with our guards. 
These Keutish ploughmeu canuot break the guards. 

Enter Messenger. 

Messenger. Wyatt, your Grace, hath broken thro' the 
guards 
And gone to Ludgate. 

Gardiner. Madam, I much fear 

That all is lost ; but we can save your Grace. 
The river still is free. I do beseech you. 
There yet is time, take boat and pass to Windsor. 
_ Mary. I pass to Windsor aud I lose my crown. 

Gardiner. Pass, then, I pray your Highness, to the 
Tower. 

Mary. I shall but be their prisoner in the Tower. 

[Cries witlwut. 
The traitor ! treason ! Pembroke ! 

Ladies. Treason ! treason ! 

Mary. Peace. 
False to Northumberlaud, is he false to me ? 
Bear witness, Renard, that I live and die 
The true and faithful bride of Philip— A sound 
Of feet and voices thickening hither— blows — 
Hark, there is battle at the palace gates, 
Aud I will out upon the gallery. 

Ladies. No, no, your Grace; see there the arrows 
flying. 

Mary. I am Harry's daughter, Tudor, and not fear. 
[Goes out on the Gallery. 
The guards are all driven in, skulk into corners 
Like rabbits to their holes. A gracious guard 
Truly ; shame on them ! they have shut the gates ! 

Enter Sie Robekt Southwell. 
Southtvell. The porter, please your Grace, hath shut 
the gates 
On friend and foe. Your gentlemen-at-arms, 
If this be not your Grace's order, cry 
To have the gates set wide again, and they 
With their good battleaxes will do you right 
Against all traitors. 
Mary. They are the flovi-er of England ; set the gates 
wide. [Exit Southwell. 

Enter Codrtrnay. 

Courtenay. All lost, all lost, all yielded ; a barge, a 

barge. 
The Queen must to the Tower. 
Mary. Whence come you, sir? 

Courtenay. From Charing Cross ; the rebels broke 

us there, 



Aud I sped hither with what haste I might 
To save my royal cousin. 

Mary. Where is Pembroke ? 

Courtenay, I left him somewhere in the thick of it. 

Mary. Left him and fled ; aud thou that would'st be 
King, 
And hast nor heart nor honor. I myself 
Will down into the battle, and there bide 
The upshot of my quarrel, or die with those 
That are no cowards aud no Courtenays. 

Cotcrtenay. I do not love your Grace should call me 
coward. 

Enter another Messenofr. 

Messenx^er. Over, yonr Grace, all crush'd ; the brave 
Lord William 
Thrust him from Ludgate, and the traitor flying 
To Temple Bar, there by Sir Maurice Berkeley 
Was taken prisoner. 

Mary. To the Tower with him ! 

Messenger. 'Tis said he told Sir Maurice there was 
one 
Cognisant of this, and party thereunto, 
My Lord of Devon. 

Mary. To the Tower with him ! 

Courtenay. O la, the Tower, the Tower, always the 
T( >wer, 
I shall grow into it— I shall be the Tower. 

Mary. Your Lordship may not have so long to wait. 
Remove him ! 

Courtenay. La, to whistle out my life. 
And carve my coat upon the walls again ! 

[Exit Courtenay guarded. 

Messenger. Also this Wyatt did confess the Princess 
Cognisant thereof, aud party thereunto. 

Mary. What ? whom — whom did you say ? 

Messenger. Elizabeth, 

Your Royal sister, 

Mary. To the Tower with her ! 

My foes are at my feet and I am Queen. 

[Gardiner and her Ladies kneel to her. 

Gardiner (rising). There let them lie, your foot- 
stool! (.iside.) Can I strike 
Elizabeth ? — not now and save the life 
Of Devon : if I save him, he and his 
Are bound to me— may strike hereafter. (Aloud.) 

Madam, 
What Wyatt said, or what they said he said. 
Cries of the moment aud the street — 

Mary. He said it. 

Gardiner. Your courts of justice will determine that. 

Henard (advancing). I trust by this your Highness 
will allow 
Some spice of wisdom in my telling you. 
When last we talk'd, that Philip would not come 
Till Guildford Dudley and the Duke of Suffolk, 
And Lady Jane had left us. 

Mary. They shall die. 

Menard. And your so loving sister ? 

Mary. She shall die. 

My foes are at my feet, and Philip King. [Exeunt. 



QUEEN MAliY. 



285 



ACT III. 



SCENE I.— THE CONDUIT IN GRACE- 
CHURCH, 

Painted with the Kine Worthies, amoncf them King 
Henry VIII. holding a book, on it inscribed "Ver- 
bum Dei." 

Enter Sik Ralph Baoeniiall and Sik Tuomas 
Stafford. 

Bagenhall. A hundred here aud hundreds hang'd in 
Kent. 
The tigress had uiisheath'd her nails at last, 
And Reuard and the Chancellor sharpeu'd them. 
In every London street a gibbet stood. 
They are down to-day. Here by this house was one ; 
The traitor husband dangled at the door, 
Aud when the traitor wire came out for bread 
To still the petty treason therewithin, 
Her cap would brush his heels. 

Stafford. It is Sir Ralph, 

And muttering to himself as heretofore. 
Sir, see you aught up yonder ? 

Bagenhall. I miss something. 

The tree that only bears dead fruit is gone. 

Stafford. What tree, sir ? 

Bagenhall. Well, the tree in Virgil, sir, 

That bears not its own apples. 

Stafford. What ! the gallows? 

Bagenhall. Sir, this dead fruit was ripeuing over- 
much. 
And had to be removed lest living Spain 
Should sicken at dead England. 

Stafford. Not so dead. 

But that a shock may rouse her. 

Bagenhall. I believe 

Sir Thomas Stafford ? 

Stafford. 1 am ill disguised. 

Bagenhall. Well, are you not in peril here? 

Stafford. I think so. 

I came to feel the pulse of Euglaud, whether 
It beats hard at this marriage. Did you see it? 

Bagenhall. Staflbrd, I am a sad man and a serious. 
Far liefer had I in my country hall 
Been reading some old book, with mine old hound 
Couch'd at my hearth, aud mine old flask of wiue 
Beside me, than have seen it, yet I saw it. 

Stafford. Good; was it splendid ? 

Bagenhall. Ay, if dukes, and earls, 

And counts, and sixty Spanish cavaliers, 
Some six or seven bishops, diamonds, pearls, 
That royal corauiouplace too, cloth of gold, 
Could make it so. 

Stafford. And what was Mary's dress ? 

Bagenhall. Good faith, I was too sorry for the wom- 
an 
To mark the dress. She wore red shoes ! 

Stafford. Red shoes ! 

Bagenhall. Scarlet, as if her feet were wash'd in 
blood. 
As if she had waded in it. 

Stafford. Were your eyes 

So bashful that you look'd no higher? 

Bagenhall. A diamond, 

And Philip's gift, as proof of Philip's love, 
Who hath not any for any, — tho' a true one, 
Blazed false upon her heart. 

Stafford. But this proud Prince— 



Bagenhall. Nay, he is Kiug, you kuow, the King of 
Naples. 
The father ceded Naples, that the son, 
Being a Kiug, might wed a Queen. O, he 
Flamed in brocade ; white satiu his trunk-hose, 
luwrought with silver ; ou his neck a collar, 
Gold, thick with diamonds ; hanging down from this 
The Golden Fleece ; and round his knee, misplaced. 
Our English Garter, studded with great emeralds. 
Rubies, I know not what. Have you had enough 
Of all this gear? 

Stafford. Ay, since you hate the telling it. 

How look'd the Queen ? 

Bagenhall. No fairer for her jewels. 

And I could see that as the new-made couple 
Came from the minister, moving side by side 
Beneath one canopy, ever aud anon 
She cast on him a vassal smile of love. 
Which Philip with a glance of some distaste, 
Or so methought, return'd. I may be wrong, sir. 
This marriage will not hold. 

Stafford. I think with you. 

The King of France will help to break it. 

Bagenhall. France! 

We once had half of France, and hurl'd our battles 
Into the heart of Spain ; but England now 
Is but a ball chuck'd between France and Spain, 
His in whose hand she drops; Hariy of Bolingbroke 
Had holpeu Richard's tottering throne to stand, 
Could Hariy have foreseen that all our nobles 
Would perish ou the civil slaughter-field, 
And leave the people naked to the crown, 
And the crown naked to the people; the crown 
Female, too ! Sir, no woman's regimen 
Can save us. We are falleu, and, as I think. 
Never to rise again. 

Stafford. You are too black-blooded. 

I'd make a move myself to hinder that: 
I know some lusty fellows there in Prance. 

Bagenhall. You would but make us weaker, Thomas 
Stafford. 
Wyatt was a good soldier, yet he fail'd. 
And strengthen'd Philip. 

Stafford. Did not his last breath 

Clear Courtenay and the Princess from the charge 
Of beiug his co-rebels ? 

Bagenhall. Ay, but then 

What such a one as Wyatt says is nothing: 
We have no men among us. The new Lords 
Are quieted with their sop of Abbeylands, 
And ev'n before the Queen's face Gardiner buys them 
With Philip's gold. All greed, no faith, no courage ! 
Why, ev'n the haughty Prince, Northumberland, 
The leader of our Reformation, kuelt 
And blubber'd like a lad, and on the scaffold 
Recanted, and resold himself to Rome. 

Stafford. I swear you do your country wrong, Sir 
Ralph. 
I know a set of exiles over there, 
Dare-devils, that would eat fire and spit it out 
At Philip's beard: they pillage Spain already. 
The French King winks at it. Au hour will come 
When they will sweep her from the seas. No men? 
Did not Lord Suffolk die like a true man? 
Is not Lord William Howard a true man ? 
Yea, you yourself, altho' you are black-blooded:. 
And I, by God, believe myself a man. 



28G 



QUEEN MARY. 



Ay, even iu the church there is a mau — 

Craumer. 

Fly, would he not, when all men bade him fly. 

And what a letter he wrote against the Pope ! 

There's a brave mau, if any. 

Bagenhall. Ay ; if it hold. 

Crowd (coming on). God save their Graces ! 

Stafford. Bagenhall, I see 

The Tudor green and ^^hite. (Trumpetti.) They are 

coming now. 
And here's a crowd as thick as herring-shoals. 

Bagenhall. Be limpets to this pillar, or we are torn 
Down the strong wave of brawlers. 

Crowd. God save their Graces ! 

[Procession of Trumpeters, Javelin-men, etc. ; then 
Spanish and Flemish Xobles intermingled. 

Staford. Worth seeing, Bagenhall! These black 
dog-Dons 
Garb themselves bravely. Who's the long-face there. 
Looks very Spain of very Spain ? 

Bagenhall. The Duke 

Of Alva, an iron soldier. 

Stafford. And the Dutchman, 

Now laughing at some jest '? 

Bagenhall. William of Orange, 

William the Silent. 

Stafford. Why do they call him so ? 

Bagenhall. He keeps, they say, some secret that may 
cost 
Philip his life. 

Stafford. But then he looks so merry. 

Bagenhall. I cannot tell you why they call him so. 
[The King and Queen pass, attended by Peers of 
the Realm, Officers of State, etc. Cannon shot off. 

Crowd. Philip and Mary ! Philip and Mary ! 
Long live the King and Queen, Philip and Mary ! 

Stafford. They smile as if content with one another. 

Bagenhall. A smile abroad is oft a scowl at home. 
[King and Queen pass on. Procession. 

First Citizen. I thought this Philip had been one 
of those black devils of Spain, but he hath a yellow 
beard. 

Second Citizen. Not red like Iscariot's. 

First Citizen. Like a carrot's, as thou say'st, and 
English carrot's better than Spanish licorice ; but I 
thought he was a beast. 

Third Citizen. Certain I had heard that every Span- 
iard carries a tail like a devil under his trunk-hose. 

Tailor. Ay, but see what trunk-hoses! Lord ! they 
be fine ; I never stitch'd none such. They make 
amends for the tails. 

Fourth Citizen. Tut ! every Spanish priest will tell 
you that all English heretics have tails. 

Fi.flh Citizen. Death and the Devil— if he find I 
have one — 

Fourth Citizen. Lo! thou hast call'd them up ! here 
they come— a pale horse for Death, and Gardiner for 
the Devil. 

Enter Gardinee {turning back from the procession). 

Gardiner. Knave, wilt thou wear thy cap before the 
Queen ? 

Man. My Lord, I stand so squeezed among the 
crowd 
I cannot lift my hands unto my head. 

Gardiner. Knock oflf his cap there, some of you about 
him ! 
See there be others that can use their hands. 
Thou art one of Wyatt's men ? 

Man. No, my Lord, no. 

Gardiner. Thy name, thou knave ? 

Man. I am nobody, my Lord. 

Gardiner {shouting). God's passion ! kuave, thy 
name? 

Man. I have ears to hear. 

Gardiner. Ay, rascal, if I leave thee ears to hear. 
Findpnt his name and bring it me (to Attendant). 

Attendant. Ay, my Lord. 



Gardiner. Knave, thou shalt lose thine ears and find 
thy tongue, 
And shalt be thankful if I leave thee that. 

[Coming before the Conduit. 
The conduit painted— the nine worthies— ay I 
But then what's here? King Harry with a scroll. 
Ha — Verbum Dei— verbum — word of God ! 
God's passion ! do you know the kuave that painted it ? 

Attendant. I do, my Lord. 

Gardiner. Tell him to paint it out, 

And put some fresh device in lieu of it— 
A pair of gloves, a pair of gloves, sir ; ha ? 
There is no heresy there. 

Attendant. I will, my Lord, 

The man shall paint a pair of gloves. I am sure 
(Knowing the man) he wrought it ignorantly, 
And not from any malice. 

Gardiner. Word of God 

In English ! over this the brainless loons, 
That cannot spell Esaias from St. Paul, 
Make themselves drunk and mad, fly out and flare 
Into rebellions. I'll have their Bibles burnt. 
The Bible is the priest's ! Ay ! fellow, what ! 
Stand staring at me ! shout, you gaping rogue. 

Man. I have, my Lord, shouted till I am hoarse. 

Gardiner. What hast thou shouted, knave? 

Man. Long live Queen Mary ! 

Gardiner. Knave, there be two. There be both 
King and Queen, 
Philip and Mary. Shout. 

Man. Nay, but, my Lord, 

The Queen comes first, Mary and Philip. 

Gardiner. Shout, then, 

Mary and Philip. 

Man. Mary and Philip ! 

Gardiner. Now, 

Thou hast shouted for thy pleasure, shout for mine<. 
Philip and Mary ! 

3fan. Must it be so, my Lord ? 

Gardiner. Ay, knave. 

Man. Philip and Mary. 

Gardiner. I distrust thee. 

Thine is a half voice and a lean asseut. 
What is thy name ? 

Man. Sanders. 

Gardiner. What else ? 

Man. Zeru1)babel. 

Gardiner. Where dost thou live ? 

Man. In Cornhill. 

Gardiner. Where, knave, where ? 

Man. Sign of the Talbot. 

Gardiner. Come to me to-morrow i 

Rascal ! — this land is like a hill of tire. 

One crater opens when another shuts. 

But so I get the laws against the heretic. 

Spite of Lord Paget and Lord William Howard, 

And others of our Parliament, revived, 

I will show fire on my side— stake and fire — 

Sharp work and short. The knaves are easily cow'd. 

Follow their Majesties. [Exit. The crowd following. 

Bagenhall. As proud as Becket. 

Stafford. You would not have him murder'd as 
Becket was ? 

Bagenhall. No— murder fathers murder: but I say 
There is no man— there was one woman with us — 
It was a sin to love her married, dead 
I cannot choose but love her. 

Stafford. Lady Jane? 

Crowd {going off). God save their Graces ! 

Stafford. Did you see her die? 

Bagenhall. No, no ; her innocent blood had blind- 
ed me. 
You call me too black-blooded— true enough, 
Her dark dead blood is in my heart with mine. 
If ever I cry out against the Pope, 
Her dark dead blood that ever moves with mine 
Will stir the living tongue and make the cry. 

Stafford. Yet doubtless you can tell me how she died f 



QUEEN MARY. 



287 



Bar/cnhall. Seventeen — and kuew eight lauguages — 
iu music 
Peerless— iier ueecUe perfect, aud her learning 
Beyond the churchmen ; yet so meek, so modest, 
So wife-like humble to the trivial boy 
Mismatch'd with her for policy ! I have heard 
She would not take a last farewell of him, 
She fear'd it might unman him for his end. 
She could not be uumann'd — no, nor outwomau'd — 
1 Seventeen— a rose of grace ! 
Girl never breathed to rival snch a rose ; 
Rose never blew that equall'd such a bud. 

Stafford. Pray you go on. 

BagcnhaU. She came upon the scaffold. 

And said she was condenin'd to die for treason ; 
She had but follow'd the device of those 
Her nearest kin : she thought they kuew the laws. 
But for herself, she kuew but little law, 
Aud nothing of the titles to the crown ; 
She had no desire for that, aud wrung her hands, 
And trusted God would save her thro' the blood 
Of Jesus Christ alone. 

Stafford. Pray you go on. 

BagenhaU. Theu knelt aud said the Mi?erere Mei — 
But all in English, mark yon ; rose again. 
And, when the headsman pray'd to be forgiven. 
Said, "You will give me my true crown at last. 
But do it quickly ;" then all wept but she. 
Who changed not color when she saw the block 
But ask'd him, childlike: "Will you take it off 
Before I lay me down ?" " No, madam," he said, 
Gaspiug; and when her innocent eyes were bound, 
She, with her poor blind hands feeling — "Where is it ? 
Where is it?" — You must fancy that which follow'd, 
If you have heart to do it ! 

Crowd {in the distance). God save their Graces ! 

Stafford. Their Graces, our disgraces 1 God con- 
found them ! 
Why, she's grown bloodier ! When I last was here, 
This was against her conscience — would be murder ! 

BagenhaU. The "Thou shalt do no murder," which 
God's hand 
Wrote on her couscieuce, Mary rubbed out pale — 
She could not make it white — and over that. 
Traced iu the blackest text of Hell—" Thou shalt '." 
And sign'd it— Mary ! 

Stafford. Philip and the Pope 

Must have sign'd too. I hear this Legate's coming 
To bring us absolution from ihe Pope. 
The Lords and Commons will bow down before him— 
You are of the house? what will you do. Sir Ralph ? 

BagenhaU. And why should I be bolder than the rest. 
Or honester than all ? 

Stafford. But, sir, if I— 

Aud oversea they say this state of yours 
Hath no more mortice than a tower of cards ; 
And that a puff would do it— then if 1 
Aud others made that move I touch'd upon, 
Back'd by the power of France, aud landing here. 
Came with a suddeu splendor, shout, and show, 
Aud dazzled men aud deafeu'd by some bright 
Loud venture, and the people so unquiet — 
And I the race of mnrder'd Buckingham — 
Not for myself, but for the kingdom— sir, 
I trust that you would light along with us. 

BagenhaU. No ; yon would fling your lives into the 
gulf. 

Stafford. But if this Philip, as he's like to do, 
Left Mary a wife-widow here alone, 
Set up a viceroy, seut his myriads hither 
To seize upon the forts and fleet, and make us 
A Spanish province ; would you not fight then ? 

BagenhaU. I thiulc I should tight then. 

Stafford. I am sure of it. 

Hist ! there's the face coming on here of one 
Who knows me. I must leave you. Fare you well. 
You'll hear of me again. 

BagenhaU. Upon the scaffold. [Exeunt. 

19 



SCENE II.- 



-ROOM IN WHITEHALL 
PALACE. 



Maky. Enter Phtlip and Cakdinal Pole. 

Pole. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Beuedicta tu in mil- 
lieribus. 

Mary. Loyal aud royal cousin, humblest thauks. 
Had you a pleasant voyage up the river? 

Pole. We had your royal barge, and that same chair, 
Or rather throne of purple, on the deck. 
Our silver cross sparlded before the prow. 
The ripples twinkled at their diamond-dance. 
The boats that follow'd were as glowing-gay 
As regal gardens ; aud your flocks of swaus. 
As fair and white as angels ; aud your shores 
Wore iu mine eyes the green of Paradise. 
My foreign friends, who dream'd us blanketed 
In ever-closing fog, were much amazed 
To find as fair a sun as might have flash'd 
Upon their lake of Garda, tire the Thames ; 
Our voyage by sea was all but miracle ; 
And here the river flowing from the sea. 
Not toward it (for they thcnight not of our tides), 
Seem'd as a happy miracle to make glide — 
In quiet — home your banish'd countryman. 

Mary. We heard that you were sick in Flanders, 
cousin. 

Pole. A dizziness. 

Mary. And how came yon round again ? 

Pole. The scarlet thread of Rahab saved her life ; 
And mine, a little letting of the blood. 

Mary. Well? now? 

Pole. Ay, cousin, as the heathen giant 

Had but to touch the ground, his force return'd — 
Thus, after twenty years of bauishment. 
Feeling my native land beneath my foot 
I said thereto: "Ah, native laud of mine. 
Thou art much beholden to this foot of mine. 
That hastes with full commission from the Pope 
To absolve thee from thy guilt of heresy. 
Thou hast disgraced ms and attainted me, 
Aud mark'd me ev'n as Cain, aud I return 
As Peter, but to bless thee: make me well." 
Methinks the good land heard me, for to-day 
My heart beats twenty, when I see you, cousin. 
Ah, gentle cousin, since your Herod's death. 
How oft hath Peter kuock'd at Mary's gate ! 
Aud Mary would have risen and let him iu. 
But, Mary, there were those within the house 
Who would not have it. 

Mary. True, good cousin Pole ; 

And tlierc were also those without the house 
Who would not have it. 

Pole. I believe so, cousin. 

State-policy and church-policy are conjoint. 
But Janus-faces looking diverse ways. 
I fear the Emperor much misvalued me. 
But all is well ; 'twas ev'n the will of God, 
Who, waiting till the time had ripen'd, now, 
Makes me his mouth of holy greeting. "Hail, 
Daughter of God, aud saver of the faith. 
Sit beuedictus fructus ventris tiii I" 

Mary. Ah, heaven ! 

Pole. Unwell, your Grace ? 

Mary. No, cousin, happy- 

Happy to see you ; never yet so happy 
Since I was crown'd. 

Pole. Sweet cousin, you forget 

That long low minster where you gave your hand 
To this great Catholic King. 

Philip. Well said. Lord Legate. 

Mary. Nay, not well said ; I thought of you, my 
liege, 
Ev'n as I spoke. 

Philip. Ay, Madam ; my Lord Paget 

Waits to present our Council to the Legate. 
Sit down here, all ; Madam, between us you. 



QUEEN MARY. 



Pole. Lo, uow you are enclosed with boards of 
cedar, 
Our little sister of the Song of Soupts ! 
You are doubly fenced and shielded sittiup; here 
Between the two most high-set thrones on earth, 
The Emperor's highness happily symboll'd by 
The King your husband, the Pope's Holiness 
By mine own self. 

Mary. True, cousin, I am happy. 

When will you that we summon both our houses 
To take this absolution from your lips, 
And be regather'd to the Papal fold ? 

Pole. In Britain's calendar the brightest day 
Beheld our rough forefathers break their gods. 
And clasp the faith in Christ ; but after that 
Might not St. Andrew's be her happiest day? 

Mary. Then these shall meet upon St. Andrew's day. 

Enter Paget, who presents the Council. Dumb show. 

Pole. I am an old man wearied with my journey, 
Ev'n with my joy. Permit me to withdraw. 
To Lambeth ? 

Philip. Ay, Lambeth has ousted Cranmer. 

It was not meet the heretic swine should live 
In Lambeth. 

Mary. There or anywhere, or at all. 

Philip. We have had it swept and garuish'd after 
him. 

Pole. Not for the seven devils to enter in ? 

Philip. No, for we trust they parted in the swine. 

Pole. True, and I am the Angel of the Pope. 
Farewell, your Graces. 

Philip. Nay, not here— to me ; 

I wll go with you to the waterside. 

Pole. Not be my Charon to the counter side ? 

Philip. No, my Lord Legate, the Lord Chancellor 
goes. 

Pole. And unto no dead world ; but Lambeth pal- 
ace. 
Henceforth a centre of the living faith. 

[Exeunt Puilip, Pole, Paget, etc. 

Mary. He hath awaked ! he hath awaked ! 
He stirs within the darkness ! 
Oh, Philip, husband ! now thy love to mine 
Will cling more close, and those bleak manners thaw, 
That make me shamed and tongue-tied in my love. 
The second Prince of Peace — 
The great unborn defender of the Faith, 
Who will avenge me of mine enemies- 
He conies, and my star rises. 
The stormy Wyatts and Northumberlands, 
The proud ambitions of Elizabeth, 
And all her fieriest partisans- are pale 
Before my star ! 

The light of this new learning wanes and dies : 
The ghosts of Luther and Zuinglins fade 
Into the deathless hell which is their doom 
Before my star I 

His sceptre shall go forth from lud to Ind ! 
His sword shall hew the heretic peoples down ; 
His faith shall clothe the world that will be his, 
Like universal air and sunshine ! Open, 
Ye everlasting gates ! Tlie King is here !— 
My star, my son ! 

Enter Puii,ir, Duke of Ai.va, etc. 

Oh, Philip, come with me ; 
Good news have I to tell you, news to make 
Both of us happy— ay, the kingdom too. 
Nay come with me— one moment 1 

Philip {to Alva). More than that : 

There was one here of late— William the Silent 
They call him— he is free enough in talk. 
But tells me nothing. You will be, we trust, 
Sometime the viceroy of those i)roviuces— 
He must deserve his surname better. 

A Iva. Ay, sir, 

Inherit the Great Silence. 



Philip. True ; the provinces 

Are hard to rule and must be hardly ruled; 
Most fruitful, yet, indeed, an empty rind. 
All hollow'd out with stinging heresies; 
And for their heresies, Alva, tliey will fight: 
You must break them or they break you. 

Alva (proudly). The first. 

Philip. Good ! 
Well, Madam, this new happiness of mine. [Exeunt. 

Enter Tuuee Pages. 
First Page. News, mates ! a miracle, a miracle ! 
news ! 
The bells must ring; Te Deums must be sung; 
The Queen hath felt the motion of her babe ! 
Second Page. Ay ; but see here ! 
First Page. See what ? 

Second Page. This papei-, Dickon. 

I found it fluttering at the palace gates :— 
"The Queen of England is delivered of a dead dog'." 
Third Page. These are the things that madden her. 

Fie upon it. 
First Page. Ay; but I hear she hath a dropsy, lad, 
Or a high-dropsy, as the doctors call it. 
Third Page. Fie on her dropsy, so she have a drop- 
sy ! 
I know that she -^v-as ever sweet to me. 
First Page. For thou and thine are Roman to the 

core. 
Third Page. So thou and thine must be. Take 

heed ! 
First Page. Not I, 

And vi'hether this flash of news be false or true, 
So the wine run, and there be revelry. 
Content am I. Let all the steeples clash. 
Till the sun dance, as upon Easter day. [E.vcunt, 



SCENE III. — GREAT HALL IN WHITE- 
HALL. 

[At the far end a dais. On this three chairs, tivo urt-- 
der one canopy for Mary and PiULir, another on 
the right of these for Pole. Under the dais on 
Pole's side, ranged along the loall, sit all the Sjnr- 
itual Peers, and along the wall opposite, all the 
Temporal. The Commons on cross benches in 
front, a line of approach to the da'is between them. 
In the foreground Siu Ralph Baqenhall and oth- 
er Membeks of the Commons.] 

First Member. St. Andrew's day; sit close, sit close, 
we are friends. 
Is reconciled the word? the Pope again? 
It must be thus ; and j-et, cocksbody ! how strange 
That Gardiner, once so one with all of us 
Against this foreign marriage, should have yielded 
So utterly !— strange ! but stranger slill that he, 
So fierce against the headship of the P()i)e, 
Should play the second actor in this pageant 
That brings him in ; such a cameleon he ! 

Second Member. This Gardiner turu'd his coat in 
Henry's time; 
The serpent that hath slough'd will slough again. 

Third Member. Tut, then we all are serpents. 

Second Member. Speak for yourself. 

Third Member. Ay, and for Gardiner ! being English 
citizen. 
How should he bear a bridegroom out of Spain ? 
The Queen would have him ! being English church- 
man 
How should he bear the headship of the Pope ? 
The Queen would have it ! Statesmen that are wise 
Shape a necessity, as the sculptor clay. 
To their own model. 

Second Member. Statesmen that are wise 
Take truth herself for model, what say you? 

[To Siu Kalpu Baqenhall. 



QUEEN MARY. 



289 



Bagcnhall. We talk aud talk. 

Fimt Member. Ay, and what use to talk ? 

Philip's uo sudden alien — the Queen's husband, 
He's here, and King, or will be— yet, cocksbody ! 
So hated here ! I watch'c a hive of late ; 
My seven-years' frieud was with me, my young boy ; 
Out crept a wasp, with half the swarm behind. 
" Philip," says he. I had to cuff the rogne 
For infant treason. 

Third Member. But they say that bees, 
If any creeping life invade their hive 
Too gross to be thrust out, will build him round, 
Aud bind him in from harming of their combs. 
And Philip by these articles is bound 
From stirring hand or foot to wrong the realm. 

Second Member. By bonds of beeswax, like your 
creeping thing; 
But your wise bees had stung him first to death. 

Third Member. Hush, hush ! 
You wrong the Chancellor: the clauses added 
To that same treaty which the Emperor sent us 
Were mainly Gardiner's : that no foreigner 
Hold office in the household, fleet, forts, army; 
That if the Queen should die without a child. 
The bond between the kingdoms be dissolved; 
That Philip should not mix us any way 
With his French wars — 

Second Member. Ay, ay, but what security. 

Good sir, for this, if Philip — 

Third Member. Peace— the Queen, 

Philip, and Pole. [All rise, and stand. 

Enter Mary, Philip, and Pole. 
[Gaetiiner conducts them to the three chairs of 
state. PuiLip sits on the Queen's left, Pole on 
her right, 
Gardiner. Our short-lived sun, before his winter 
plunge. 
Laughs at the last red leaf, and Andrew's day. 

Mary. Should not this day be held in after-years 
More solemn than of old ? 

Philip. Madam, my wish 

Echoes your Majesty's. 
Pole. It shiill be so. 

Gardiner. Mine echoes both your Graces'; (aside) 
but the Pope — 
Can we not have the Catholic church as well 
Without as with the Italian ? if we cannot. 
Why thou the Pope. 

My Lords of the upper house, 
And ye, my masters, of the lower house. 
Do ye stand fast by that which ye resolved? 
Voices. We do. 

Gardiner. And be you all one mind to supplicate 
The Legate here for pardon, aud ackuowledge 
The primacy of the Pope? 

Voices. We are all one mind. 

Gardiner. Then must I play the vassal to this Pole. 

[A side. 
[He draws a paper from under his robes and pre- 
sents it to the King and Queen, who look through 
it and return it to him ; then ascends a tribune, 
and reads. 
We, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, 
Aud Commons here in Parliament assembled. 
Presenting the whole body of this realm 
Of England, and dominions of the same, 
Do make most humble suit unto your Majesties, 
In our own name and that of all the state. 
That by your gracious means and intercession 
Our supplication be exhibited 
To the Lord Cardinal Pole, sent here as Legate 
From our Most Holy Father, Julius, Pope, 
And from the apostolic see of Rome ; 
And do declare our penitence and grief 
For our long schism and disobedience. 
Either in making laws and ordinances 



Against the Holy Father's primacy, 
Or else by doing or by speaking aught 
Which might impugn or prejudice the same ; 
By this our supplication promising. 
As well for our own selves as all the realm, 
That now we be and ever shall be quick, 
Under and with your Majesties' authorities. 
To do to the utmost all that i-n us lies 
Towards the abrogation and repeal 
Of all such laws aud ordinances made ; 
Whereon we humbly pray your Majesties, 
As persons undefiled with our offence, 
So to set forth this humble suit of ours 
That we the rather by your intercession 
May from the apostolic see obtain. 
Thro' this most reverend Father, absolution. 
And full release from danger of all censures 
Of Holy Church that we be fall'n into. 
So that we may, as children penitent. 
Be once again received into the bosom 
And unity of Universal Church ; 
And that this noble realm thro' after-years 
May in this unity and obedience 
Unto the holy see and reigning Pope 
Serve God aud both your Majesties. 

Voices. Amen. [All sii. 

[He again presents the petition to the King and 

Queen, loho hand it reverentially to Pole. 
Pole (sitting). This is the loveliest day that ever 

smiled 
On England. All her breath should, incenselike, 
Rise to the heavens in grateful praise of Him 
Who now recalls her to his ancient fold. 
Lo ! once again God to this realm hath given 
A token of His more especial Grace ; 
For as this peojjle were the first of all 
The islands call'd into the dawning church 
Out of the dead, deep night of heathendom, 
So now are these the first whom God hath given 
Grace to repent and sorrow for their schism ; 
And if your penitence be not mockery, 
Oh how the blessed angels who rejoice 
Over one saved do triumph at this hour 
In the reborn salvation of a land 
So noble ! [A j)ause. 

For ourselves we do protest 
That our commission is to heal, not harm ; 
We come not to condemn, but reconcile ; 
We come not to compel, but call again ; 
We come not to destroy, but edify ; 
Nor yet to question things already done ; 
These are forgiven — matters of the past — 
And range with jetsam and with offal thrown 
Into the blind sea of forgetfiilness. [A pause. 

Ye have reversed the attainder laid on us 
By him who sack'd the house of God; and we, 
Amplier than any field on our poor earth 
Can render thanks in fruit for being sown, 
Do here and now repay yon sixty-fold, 
A hundred, yea, a thousand thousand-fold. 
With heaven for earth. 

[Rising and stretching forth his hands. All kneel 

but Sir Ralph Bagenuai.l, who rises and ro- 

maitis standing. 

The Lord who hath redeem'd us 
With His own blood, and wash'd us from our sins, 
To purchase for Himself a stainless bride; 
He, whom the Father hath appointed Head 
Of all his church. He by His mercy absolve you ! 

[A patise. 
And we by that authority apostolic 
Given unto us, his Legate, by the Pope, 
Our Lord aud Holy Father, Julius, 
God's Vicar and Vicegerent upon earth, 
Do here absolve you and deliver you 
And every one of you, and all the realm 
And its dominions from all heresy, 
All schism, aud from all and every censure, 



290 



QUEEN MARY. 



Judgment, and pain accrning thereupon; 

And also we restore you to the bosom 

And unity of Universal Church. 

[Turning to Gakdineb. 

Our letters of commissiou will declare this plaiiilier. 
[Queen heard sobbing. Cries of Amen ! Amen ! 
Some of the members enibrace one another. All 
hut Sir Kai.pii Bageniiall pass out into the 
neighboring chapel, whence is heard the Te Deum. 
Bagenhall. We strove agaiust the papacy from the 
tirst, 

In William's time, in our first Edward's time, 

And in my master Henry's time ; but uoav. 

The unity of Universal Church, 

Mary would have it ; and this Gardiner follows ; 

The unity of Universal Hell, 

Philip would have it ; and this Gardiner follows! 

A Parliament of imitative apes ! 

Sheep at the gap which Gardiner takes, who not 

Believes the Pope, uor any of them believe — 

These spaniel-Spaniard English of the time, 

Who rub their fawning noses in the dust, 

For that is Philip's gold-dust, and adore 

This Vicar of their "Vicar. Would 1 had been 

Born Spaniard ! I had held my head up then. 

I am ashamed that I am Bagenhall, 

English. 

Enter Officer. 

Officer. Sir Ralph Bagenhall. 

Bagenhall. What of that ? 

Officer. You were the one sole man in either house 
Who stood upright when both the houses fell. 

Bagenhall. The houses fell ! 

Officer. I mean the houses kuelt 

Before the Legate. 

Bagenhall. Do not scrimp your phrase, 

But stretch it wider ; say when England fell. 

Officer. I say you were the one sole man who stood. 

Bagenhall. I am the one sole man in either house, 
Perchance in England, loves her like a son. 

Officer. Well, you one man, because you stood up- 
right. 
Her Grace the Queen commands you to the Tower. 

Bagenhall. As traitor, or as heretic, or for what ? 

Officer. If any man in any way would be 
The one man, he shall be so to his cost. 

Bagenhall. What ! will she have my head ? 

Officer. A round fine likelier. 

Your pardon. [Calling to attendant. 

By the river to the Tower. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE IV.— WHITEHALL. A EOOM IN 
THE PALACE. 

Maev, Gardiner, Pole, Paget, Bonner, etc. 

Mary. The King and I, my Lords, now that all trai- 
tors 
Against our royal state have lost the heads 
Wherewith they plotted in their treasonous malice, 
Have talk'd together, and are well agreed 
That those old statutes touching Lollardism 
To bring the heretic to the stake, should be 
No longer a dead letter, but requicken'd. 
One of the Council. Why, what hath flnster'd Gar- 
diner? How he rubs 
His forelock ! 

Paget. I have changed a word with him 

In coming, and may change a word again. 
Gardiner. Madam, your Highness is our sun, the 
King 
And you together our two suns in one ; 
And so the beams of both may shine upon us, 
The faith that secm'd to droop will feel your light, 
Lift head, and flourish ; yet not light alone, 
There must be heat — there must be heat enough 
To scorch and wither heresy to the rout. 



For what saith Christ? "Compel them to come in." 

And what saith Paul ? "I would they were cut off 

That trouble you." Let the dead letter live ! 

Trace it in fire, that all the louts to whimi 

Their A B C is darkness, clowns and grooms 

May read it ! so you quash rebellion too, 

For heretic and traitor are all one : 

Two vipers of one breed — an amphisboena. 

Each end a sting. Let the dead letter buru ! 

Paget. Yet there be some disloyal Catholics, i 
And many heretics loyal ; heretic t'nroats 
Cried no God-bless-her to the Lady Jane, 
But shouted in Queen Mary. So there be 
Some traitor-heretic, there is axe and cord. 
To take the lives of others that are loyal, 
And by the churchman's pitiless doom of fire. 
Were but a thankless policy in the crown, 
Ay, and against itself; for there are many. 

Mary. If we could Imrn out heresy, my Lord Paget 
We reck not tho' we lost this crown of England — 
Ay ! tho' it were ten Euglands ! 

Gardiner, Eight, your Grace. 

Paget, you are all for this poor life of ours, 
Aud care but little for the life to be. 

Paget. I have some time, for curiousness, my Lord, 
Watch'd children playing at their life to be. 
And cruel at it, killing helpless flies ; 
Such is our time — all times for aught I know. 

Gardiner. We kill the heretics that sting the soul— 
They, with right reason, flies that prick the flesh. 

Paget. They had not reach'd right reason ; little 
children I 
They kill'd but for their pleasure and the power 
They felt in killing. 

Gardiner. A spice of Satan, ha ! 

Why, good ! what then? granted ! — we are fallen creat- 
ures ; 
Look to your Bible, Paget ! we are fallen . 

Paget. I am but of the laity, my Lord Bishop, 
And may not read your Bible, yet I found 
One day, a wholesome scripture, "Little children. 
Love one another." 

Gardiner, Did you find a scripture, 

"I come not to bring peace, but a sword ?" The sword 
Is in her Grace's hand to smite with. Paget, 
You stand up here to fight for heresy. 
You are more than guess'd at as a heretic, 
And on the steep-up track of the true faith 
Your lapses are far seen. 

Paget. The faultless Gardiner ! 

Mary. You brawl beyond the question ; speak, Lord 
Legate. 

Pole. Indeed, I can not follow with your Grace, 
Rather would say — the shepherd doth not kill 
The sheep that wander from his flock, but scuds 
His careful dog to bring them to the fold. 
Look to the Netherlands, wherein have been 
Such holocausts of heresy I to what end? 
For yet the faith is not establish'd there. 

Gardiner. The end's not come. 

Pole. No— nor this way will comu, 

Seeing there lie two ways to every cud, 
A better and a worse— the worse is here 
To persecute, because to persecute 
Makes a faith hated, and is furthermore 
No perfect witness of a perfect faith 
In him who persecutes : when men are tost 
On tides of strange opinion, and not sure 
Of their own selves, they are wroth with their own 

selves. 
And thence with others; then, who lights the fag- 
pot? 
Not the full faith, no, but the lurking donbt. 
Old Rome, tliat first made martyrs in the Church, 
Trembled for her own gods, for these were trembling— 
But when did our Rome tremble ? 

Paget. Did she not 

In Henry's time and Edward's? 



QUEEN MARY. 



291 



Pole. What, my Lord ! 

The Church on Peter's rock ? never ! I have seen 
A pine in Italy that cast its shadow 
Athwart a cataract ; firm stood the pine — 
The cataract shooli the shadow. To my mind, 
The cataract typed the headlong plunge and fall 
Of heresy to the pit: the pine was Rome. 
You see, my Lords, 

It was the shadow of the Church that trembled; 
Your church was but a shadow of a church, 
Wanting the triple mitre. 

Gardiner omUtering). Here be tropes. 

Pole. And tropes are good to clothe a naked truth, 
And make it look more seemly. 

Gardiner. Tropes again ! 

Pole. You are hard to please. Then without tropes, 
my Lord, 
An overmuch severeness, I repeat, 
When faith is wavering makes the waverer pr.ss 
Into more settled hatred of the doctrines 
Of those who rule, which hatred by-and-by 
Involves the ruler (thus there springs to light 
That Centaur of a monstrous Commonweal, 
The traitor-heretic) ; then, tho' some may quail, 
Yet others are that dare the stake and fire, 
And their strong torment bravely borne, begets 
An admiration and an indignation. 
And hot desire to imitate ; so the plague 
Of schism spreads ; were there but three or four 
Of these misleaders, yet I would not say 
Burn ! and we cannot burn whole towns ; they are 

many. 
As my Lord Paget says. 

Gardiner. Yet, my Lord Cardinal — 

Pole. I am your Legate ; please you let me finish. 
Methinks that under our Queen's regimen 
We might go softlier than with crimson rowel 
And streaming lash. When Herod-Henry first 
Began to batter at your English Church, 
This was the cause, and hence tbe judgment on her. 
She seetlied with such adulteries, and the lives 
Of many among your churchmeu were so foul 
That heaven wept and earth blush'd. I would advise 
That we should thoroughly cleanse the Church within 
Before these bitter statutes be requicken'd. 
So after that when she one ; more is seen 
White as the light, the spotless bride of Christ, 
Like Christ Himself on Tabor, possibly 
The Lutheran may be won to her again ; 
Till when, my Lords, I counsel tolerance. 

Gardiner. What, if a mad dog bit your hand, my 
Lord, 
Would you not chop the bitten finger off. 
Lest your whole body should madden with the poison ? 
I would not, were I Queen, tolerate the heretic, 
No, not an hour. The ruler of a land 
Is bounden by his power and place to see 
His people be not poison'd. Tolerate them ! 
Why ? do they tolerate you ? Nay, many of them 
Would bum — have burnt each other; call they not 
The one true faith a loathsome idol-worship ? 
Beware, Lord Legate, of a heavier crime 
Thau heresy is itself; beware, I say, 
Lest men accuse you of indifference 
To all faiths, all religion ; for you know 
Right well that you yourself have been supposed 
Tainted with Lutheranism in Italy. 

Pole (angered). But yon, my Lord, beyond all sup- 
position. 
In clear and open day were congruent 
With that vile Cranmer in the accursed lie 
Of good Queen Catherine's divorce— the spring 
Of all those evils that have flow'd upon us ; 
For you yourself have truckled to the tyrant. 
And done your best to bastardize our Queen, 
For which God's righteous judgment fell upon ynu 
In your five years of imprisonment, my Lord, 
LTuder young Edward. Who so bolster'd up 



The gross King's headship of the Church, or more 
Denied the Holy Father ? 

Gardiner. Ha ! what ! eh ? 

But you, my Lord, a polish'd gentleman, 
A bookman, flyiug from the heat and tussle, 
You lived among your vines and oranges. 
In your soft Italy j'onder ! You were sent for, 
You were appeal'd to, but you still preferr'd 
Your learned leisure. As for what I did, 
I suffer'd and repented. You, Lord Legate 
And Cardinal-Deacon, have not now to learn 
That ev'u St. Peter in his time of fear 
Denied hi.s master, ay, and thrice, my Lord. 

Pole. But not for five-and-twenty yeare, my Lord. 

Gardiner. Ha ! good ! it seems then I was sura- 
mon'd hither 
But to be mock'd and baited. Speak, friend Bonner, 
And tell this learned Legate he lacks zeal. 
The Church's evil is not as the King's, 
Cannot be heal'd by stroking. The mad bite 
Must have the cautery— tell him — and at once. 
What would'.st thou do had'st thou his power, then 
That layest so long in heretic bonds with me. 
Would'st thou not burn and blast them root and 
branch ? 

Bonner. Ay, after you, my Lord. 

Gardiner. Nay, God's passion, before me ! speak. 

Bonner. I am on fire until I see them flame. 

Gardiner. Ay, the psalm-singing weavers, cobblers, 
scum — 
But this most noble prince Plantagenet, 
Our good Queen's cousin — dallying over seas 
Even when his brother's, nay, his noble mother's. 
Head fell— 

Pole. Peace, madman ! 

Thou stirrest up a grief thou canst not fathom. 
Thou Christian Bishop, thou Lord Chancellor 
Of England ! no more rein upon thine anger 
Than any child ! Thou mak'st me much ashamed 
That I was for a moment wroth at thee. 

Mary. I come for counsel, and ye give me fends. 
Like dogs that, set to watch their master's gate. 
Fall, when the thief is ev'u within the walls. 
To worrying one another. My Lord Chancellor, 
Yea have an old trick of offending us ; 
And but that you are art and part with us 
In purging heresy, well we might, for this 
Your violence and much roughness to the Legate, 
Have shut you from our counsels. Cousin Pole, 
You are fresh from brighter lands. Retire with me. 
His Highness and myself (so you allow us) 
Will let you learn in peace and privacy 
What power this cooler sun of England hath 
In breeding godless vermin. And pray Heaven 
That you may see according to our sight. 
Come, cousin. [Exeunt Quken and Poi-e, etc. 

Gardiner. Pole has the Plantagenet face. 
But not the force made them our mightiest kings. 
Fine eyes— but melancholy, irresolute— 
A fine beard, Bonner, a very full fine beard. 
But a weak mouth, an indeterminate — ha? 

Bonner. Well, a weak mouth, perchance. 

Gardiner. And not like thine, 

To gorge a heretic whole, roasted or raw. 

Bonner. I'd do my best, my Lord ; but yet th3 
Legate 
Is here as Pope and Master of the Church, 
And if he go not with you — 

Gardiner. ' Tut, Master Bishop; 

Our bashful Legate, saw'st not how he flush'd? 
Touch him upon his old heretical talk. 
He'll burn a diocese to prove his orthodoxy. 
And let him call me truckler. In those times. 
Thou knowest we had to dodge, or duck, or die ; 
I kept my head for use of Holy Church ; 
And see you, we shall have to dodge again. 
And let the Pope trample our riu'hts, and plunge 
His foreign fist into our island Church 



292 



QUEEN MARY. 



To plnmp the leaner pouch of Italy. 
For a time, for a time. 

Why? that these statutes may he put in force, 
And that his fan may tlioronghly purge his floor. 
Bonner. So then you hold the Pope— 
Gardiner. I hold the Pope ! 

What do I hold him? what do I hold the Pope ? 
Come, come, the morsel stuck— this Cardinal's fault— 
I have gulpt it down. I am wholly for the Pupe, 
Utterly and altogether for the Pope, 
The Et.erual Peter of the changeless chair, 
Crown'd slave of slaves, and mitred King of kings, 
God upon earth ' What more ? what would you liave ? 
Hence, let's be gone. 

Enter Usher. 

Usher. Well that you be not gone. 

My Lord. The Queen, most wroth at first with you, 
Is now content to grant you full forgiveness, 
So that you crave full pardon of the Legate, 
I am sent to fetch you. 

Gardiner. Doth Pole yield, sir, ha ! 

Did you hear 'em ? were you by ? 

Usher. I cannot tell you, 

His bearing is so courtly-delicate ; 
And yet methinks he falters : their two Graces 
Do so dear-cousin and royal-cousin him. 
So press on him the duty which as Legate 
He owes himself, and with such royal smiles — 

Gardiner. Smiles that burn men. Bonner, it will be 
carried. 
He falters, ha? 'fore God we change and change ; 
Men now are bow'd and old, the doctors tell you. 
At three-score years ; then, if we change at all. 
We needs must do it quickly ; it is an age 
Of brief life, and brief purpose, and brief patience, 
As I have shown to-day. I am sorry for it 
If Pole be like to turn. Our old friend Cranmer, 
Your more especial love, hath turn'd so often, 
He knows not where he stands, which, if this pass. 
We two shall have to teach him ; let 'em look to it, 
Cranmer and Hooper, Ridley and Latimer, 
Rogers and Ferrar, for their time is come. 
Their hour is hard at hand, their "dies irse," 
Their "dies ilia," whicli will test their sect. 
I feel it but a duty— you will find in it 
Pleasure as well as duty, worthy Bonner— 
To test their sect. Sir, I attend the Queen 
To crave most humble pardon — of her most 
Royal, Infallible, Papal Legate-cousin. [Exeunt. 



SCENE v.— WOODSTOCK. 

Elizahktii, Lady in Waiting. 

Lady. The colors of our Queen are green and white. 
These fields are only green, they make me gape. 

Elizabeth. There's whitethorn, girl. 

Lady. Ay, for an hour in May. 

But court is always May, buds out in masques, 
Breaks into feather'd merriments, and flowers 
In silken pageants. Why do they keep us here? 
Why still suspect your Grace ? 

Elizabeth. Hard upon both. 

[ Writes on the icindoiv toith a diamond : 

Much suspected, of me 
Nothinp proven can be, 

Quotli Elizabeth, prisoner. 

Lady. What hath your Highness written ? 

Elizabeth. A true rhyme. 

Lady. Cut with a diamond ; so to last like truth. 

Elizabeth. Ay, if truth last. 

Lady. But truth, they say, will out. 

So it must last. It is not like a word, 
That comes and goes in uttering. 

Elizabeth. Truth, a word ! 

The very Truth and very Word are one. 



But truth of story, which I glanced at, girl, 
Is like a word that comes from olden days, 
And passes thro' the peoples : every tongue 
Alters it passing, till it spells and speaks 
Quite other than at first. 

Lady. I do not follow. 

Elizabeth. How many names in the long sweep of 
time 
That so foreshortens greatness, may but hang 
On the chance mention of some fool that once 
Brake bread with us, perhaps ; and my poor chronicle 
Is but of glass. Sir Heni'y Bedingtield 
May split it for a spite. 

Lady. God grant it last, 

And witness to your Grace's innocence. 
Till doomsday melt it. 

Elizabeth. Or a second fiie. 

Like that which lately crackled underfoot 
And in this very chamber, fuse the glass, 
And char us back again into the dust 
We spring from. Never peacock against rain 
Scream'd as you did for water. 

Lady. And I got it. 

I woke Sir Henry — and he's true to you — 
I read his honest horror in his eyes. 

Elizabeth. Or true to you? 

Lady. Sir Henry Bedingfield! 

I will have no man true to me, your Grace, 
But one that pares his nails ; to me ? the clown ! 
For, like his cloak, his manners want the nap 
And gloss of court ; but of this fire he says — 
Nay, swears— it was no wicked willfulness. 
Only a natural chance. 

Elizabeth. A chance— perchance 

One of those wicked willfuls that men make, 
Nor shame to call it nature. Nay, I know 
They hunt my blood. Save for my daily range 
Among the pleasant fields of Holy Writ, 
I might despair. But there hath some one come ; 
The house is all in movement. Hence, and see. 

[Exit Lady. 

Milkmaid (singing tcithout). 

Shame upon you, Robin, 

Shiime upon you now \ 
Kiss me would you 1 with my hands 

Milkinn the cow \ 

Daisies ^rovf n^ain, 

Kingcups blow ajjoin, 
And you came and kiss'd me milking the co'« 

Robin came behind me, 

Kiss'd me well, I vow ; 
Cuff him could I! with my hands 

Milking the cow ! 

Swallows fly again, 

Cuckoos cry again, 
And you came and kiss'd mo milking the co^v. 

Come, Robin, Robin, 

Come and kiss me now ; 
Help it can 1 ! with my hands 

Milking the cow ! 

Ringdoves coo again. 

All things woo again. 
Come behind and kiss n.e milking the cow 1 

Elizabeth. Right honest and red-cheek'd; Robin 
was violent. 
And she was crafty— a sweet violence, 
And a sweet craft. 1 would I were a milkmaid. 
To sing, love, marry, churn, brew, bakj, and die, 
Then have my simple headstone by the church, 
And all things lived and ended honesily. 
I could not in would. I am Harry's daughter: 
Gardiner would have my head. They are not sweet, 
The violence and the craft that do divide 
Tlie world of nature ; what is weak must lie ; 
The lion needs but roar to guard his young; 
The lapwing lies, says " here " when they are there- 
Threaten the child, "I'll scourge yon if you did it.'' 
What weapon hath the child, save hij soft tongue, 
To say "I did not?" and my rod's the block. 



QUEEN MARY. 



293 



I never lay my head upon the pillow 

But that I thiuk, " Wilt thou lie there to-morrow?" 

How oft the falling axe, that never fell, 

Hath shock'd me back into the daylight truth 

That it may fall to-day ! Tho!^e damp, black, dead 

Nights iu the Tower ; dead — with the fear of death. 

Too dead ev'u for a deatli-watch 1 Toll of a bell, 

Stroke of a clock, the scurrying of a rat 

Affrighted me, and then delighted me. 

For there was life— and there was life iu death — 

The little murder'd princes, in a pale light, 

Rose hand in hand, and whisper'd, "Come away; 

The civil wars are gone for evermore: 

Thou last of all the Tudors, come away. 

With us is peace !" The last ? It was a dream ; 

I must not dream, nor wink, but watch. She has 

gone. 
Maid Marian to her Robin— by-and-by 
Both happy ! A fox may filch a hen by night, 
And make a morning outcry iu the yard ; 
But there's no Reuard here to "catch her tripping." 
Catch me who can ; yet, sometime 1 have wish'd 
That I were caught, and kill'd away at once 
Out of the flutter. The gray rogue, Gardiner, 
Went on his kuees, aud pray'd me to confess 
Iu Wyatt's business, aud to cast myself 
Upon the good Queen's mercy ; ay, when, my Lord ? 
God save the Queeu. My jailor— 

Enter Sik Henry Bedingfield. 

Bedingfield. One, whose bolts. 

That jail you from free life, bar you from death. 
There haunt some Papist ruffians hereabout 
Would murder you. 

Elizabeth. I thank you heartily, sir ; 

But I am royal, tho' your prisoner. 
And God hath blest or cursed me with a nose— 
Your boots are from the horses. 

Bedingfield. Ay, my Lady. 

When next there comes a missive from the Quee'i 
It shall be all my study for one hour 
To rose and lavender my horsiuess, 
Before I dare to glance upon your Grace. 

Elizabeth. A missive from the Queen : last time she 
wrote, 
I had like to have lost my life : it takes my breath : 

God, sir, do you look upou your boots. 

Are you so small a mau ? Help me : what thiuk you. 
Is it life or death ? 

Bedingfield. I thought not on my boots ; 

Tho devil take all boots were ever made 
Since man went barefoot. See, I lay it here, 
For I will come no nearer to your Grace ; 

{Laying down the letter. 
And, whether it bring you bitter news or sweet. 
And God have given your Grace a nose, or not, 
I'll help you, if I may. 

Elizabeth. Your pardon, then : 

It is the heat aud narrowness of the cage 
That make the captive testy ; with free wing 
The world were all one Araby. Leave me now, 
Will you, companion to myself, sir? 

Bedingfield. Will I ? 

With most exceeding willingness, I will ; 
You know I never come till I be call'd. [Exit. 

Elizabeth. It lies there folded : is there veuom in it ? 
A snake— and if I touch it, it may sting. 
Come, come, the worst '. 
Best wisdom is to know the worst at once. [Reads : 

" It is the King's wish that you should wed Prince Philibert of 
Savoy, You are to come to Court on the instant; and thinli of this 
in your coming. Mabv the Queen," 

Thiuk ! I have many thoughts ; 

1 think there may he birdlime here for me; 

I thiuk they fain would have me from the realm ; 
I think the Queen may never bear a child ; 
I think that I may be some time the Queen, 



Then, Queen indeed : no foreign prince or priest 
Should till my throne, myself upou the steps. 
I think I will not marry anyone. 
Specially not this landless Philibert 
Of Savoy ; but, if Philip menace me, 
I thiuk that I will play with Philibert— 
As once the Holy Father did with mine. 
Before my father married my good mother— 
For fear of Spain. 

Enter Lady. 

Lady. O Lord ! your Grace, your Grace, 

I feel so happy : it seems that we shall fly 
These bald, blank fields, aud dauce into the suu 
That shines on princes. 

Elizabeth. Yet, a moment since, 

I wish'd myself the milkmaid singing here. 
To kiss and cuff among the birds and flowers— 
A right rough life aud healthful. 

Lady. But the weuch 

Hath her owu troubles ; she is weeping now ; 
For the wrong Robin took her at her word. 
Then the cow kick'd, aud all her milk was spilt. 
Your Highness such a milkmaid ? 

Elizabeth. I had kept 

My Robins and my cows in sweeter order 
Had I been such. 

Lady (slyly). And had your Grace a Robin. 

Elizabeth. Come, come, you are chill here: you 
want the sun 
That shines at Court ; make ready for the journey. 
Pray God, we 'scape the sunstroke. Ready at once. 

[Exeimt. 



SCENE VI.— LONDON. A ROOM IN THE 
PALACE. 

Lord Petre and Lokd William Howard. 

Petre. You cannot see the Queeu. Renard denied 
her, 
Ev'n now to me. 

Howard. Their Flemish go-betweeu 

And all-in-all. I came to thank her Majesty 
For freeing my friend Bagenhall from the Tower; 
A grace to me ! Mercy, that herb-of-grace, 
Flowers now but seldom. 

Petre. Only now, perhaps, 

Because the Queen hath been three days in tears 
For Philip's going — like the wild hedge-rose 
Of a soft winter, possible, not probable. 
However, you have prov'u it. 

Howard. I must see her. 

Enter Renard, 

Renard. My Lords, you cannot see her Majesty. 

Howard. Why then the King ! for I would have him 
bring it 
Home to the leisure wisdom of his Queen, 
Before he go, that since these statutes past, 
Gardiner out-Gardiners Gardiuer in his heat, 
Bonner cannot out-Bonuer his owu self^ 
Beast ! — bat they play with fire as children do. 
And burn the house, I know that these are breeding 
A fierce resolve and flxt heart-hate iu men 
Against the King, the Queeu, the Holy Father, 
The faith Itself. Can I not see him ? 

Renard. Not now. 

And in all this, my Lord, her Majesty 
Is flint of flhit, you may strike fire from her. 
Not hope to melt her. I will give your message, 

[Exeunt Petre aiid Howard. 

Enter Pniup {musing). 
Philip. She will not have Prince Philibert of Savoy ,- 
I talk'd with her iu vain— says she will live 



294 



QUEEN MARY. 



And die true maid— a goodly creature too. 

Would she had been the Queen ! j-et she must have 

him ; 
She troubles England : that she breathes iu England 
Is life and lungs to every rebel birth 
That passes out of embryo. 

Simon Reuard I — 
This Howard, whom they fear, what was he staying? 

Menard. What your imperial father said, my liege, 
To deal with heresy geutlier. Gardiner burns. 
And Bonner burns; and it would seem this people 
Care more for our brief life iu their wet land, 
Than yours in happier Spain. I told my Lord 
He should not vex her Highness : she would say 
These are the means God works with, that His church 
May flourish. 

PhiUj}. Ay, sir, but iu statesmanship 

To strike too soon is oft to miss the blow. 
Thou knowest I bade ray chaplain, Castro, preach 
Agaiust these burnings. 

Re.nard. And the Emperor 

Approved you, and, when last he wrote, declared 
His comfort iu your Grace that you were bland 
And affable to men of all estates. 
In hope to charm them from their hate of Spain. 

Philij). In hope to crush all heresy uuder Spain. 
But, Eenard, I am sicker staying here 
Than any sea could make me passing hence, 
Tho' I be ever deadly sick at sea. 
So sick am I with biding for this child. 
Is it the fashion in this clime for women 
To go twelve months in bearing of a child? 
The nurses yawn'd, the cradle gaped, they led 
Processions, chanted litanies, clash'd their bells, 
Shot oflF their lying cannon, and her priests 
Have preach'd, the fools, of this fair prince to come, 
Till, by St. James ! I find myself the fool. 
Why do you lift your eyebrow at me thus? 

Renard. I never saw your Highness moved till now. 

Philip. So, weary am I of this wet land of theirs, 
And every soul of man that breathes therein. 

Renard. My liege, we must not drop the mask before 
The masquerade is over— 

Phili}}. —Have I dropt it 1 

I have but shown a loathing face to you, 
Who knew it from the first. 

Enter Map.t. 

Mary {aside). With Renard. Still 

Parleying with Renard, all the day with Renard, 
And scarce a greeting all the day for me— 
And goes to-morrow. [Exit Mary. 

Philip {to Renabi), toko advances to him). Well, sir, 
is there more ? 

Renard {who has perceived the Queen). May Simon 
Renard speak a single word ? 

Philip. Ay. 

Renard. And be forgiven for it ? 

Philip. Simon Renard 

Knows me too. well to speak a single word 
That could not be forgiven. 

Renard. Well, my liege, 

Your Grace hath a most chaste and loving wife. 

Philip. Why not? The Queen of Philip should be 
chaste. 

Renard. Ay, but, my Lord, you know what Virgil 
sings, 
Woman is various and most mutable. 

Philip. She play the harlot ! never. 

Renard. No, sire, no. 

Not dream'd of by the rabidest Gospeller. 
There was a paper thrown into the palace, 
"The King hath wearied of his barren bride." 
She came upon it, read it, and then rent it, 
With all the rage of one who hates a truth 
He cannot but allow. Sire, I would have you— 
What should I say, I cannot pick my words — 
Be somewhat less— majestic to your Queen. 



Philip. Am I to change my manners, Simon Renard, 
Because these islanders are brutal beasts ? 
Or would you have me turn a sonneteer, 
And warble those brief-sighted eyes of hers? 

Renard. Bf ief-sighted tho' they be, I have seen them, 
sire, 
When you perchance were trifling royally 
With some fair dame of Court, suddenly till 
With such fierce fire — had it been tire indeed 
It would have burnt both speakers. 

Philip. Ay, and then? 

Renard. Sire, might it not be policy iu some matter 
Of small importance now and then to cede 
A point to her demand? 

Philip. Well, I am going. 

Renard. For should her love, when you are gone, my 
liege. 
Witness these papers, there will not be wanting 
Those that will urge her injury. Should her love — 
Aud I have known such women more than one- 
Veer to the counterpoint (aud jealousy 
Hath in it an alchemic force to fuse 
Almost into one metal love aud hate). 
And she impress her wrongs upon her Council, 
And these again upon her Parliament — 
We are not loved here, and would be then perhaps 
Not so well holpen in our wars with France, , 
As else we might be. Here she conies. 



Eater Mary. 



O Philip ! 



Mary. 
Nay, must you go indeed ? 
Philip. Madam, I must. 

Mary. The parting of a husband and a wife 
Is like the cleaving of a heart; one half 
Will flutter here, one there. 

Philip. You say true, Madam. 

Mary. The Holy Virgin will not have me yet 
Lose the sweet hope that I may bear a prince. 
If such a prince were born and you not here ! 

Philip. I should be here if such a prince were 
born. 

Mary. But must you go ? 

Philip). Madam, you know my father, 

Retiring into cloistral solitude 
To yield the remnant of his years to heaven, 
Will shift the yoke and weight of all the world 
From off his neck to mine. We meet at Brussels. 
But since mine absence will not be for long. 
Your Majesty shall go to Dover with me,- 
And wait my coming back. 

Mary. To Dover ?uo, 

I am too feeble. I will go to Greenwich, 
So you will have me with you ; and there watch 
All that is gracious in the breath of heaven 
Draw with yonr sails from our poor laud, and pass 
And leave me, Philip, with my prayers for you. 

Philip. And doubtless I shall profit by your prayers. 

Mary. Methinks that would you tarry one day more 
(The news was sudden) I could mould myself 
To bear yonr going better ; will you do it? 

Philip. Madam, a day may sink or save a realm. 

Mary. A day may save a heart from breaking too. 

Philip. Well, Simon Renard, shall we stop a day? 

Renard. Your Grace's business will not sufl'er, sire. 
For one day more, so far as I can tell. 

Philip. Then one day more to please her Majesty. 

Mary. The sunshine sweeps across my life again. 
Oh if i knew you felt this parting, Philip, 
As I do ! 

Philip. By St. James ! I do protest. 
Upon the faith and honor of a Spaniard, 
I am vastly grieved to leave your ]\tajestj'. 
Simon, is supper ready? 

Renard. Ay, my liege, 

I saw the covers laying. 

Philip. Let us have it. 

[Exeunt. 



QUEEN MARY. 



295 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I.— A ROOM IN THE PALACE. 

Mahy, CAunsAi, Pole. 

Mary. What have you there? 

Pole. So please your Majestj', 

A long petition from the foreign exiles 
To spare the life of Cranmer. Bishop Thirlby, 
And my Lord Paget and Lord William Howard, 
Crave, in the same iause, hearing of your Grace. 
Hath he not written himself— infatuated — 
To sue you for his life ? 

Man/. His life? Oh, uo ; 

Not sued for *hat— he knows it were in vain. 
But so much of the anti-papal leaven 
Works in him yet, he hath pray'd me not to sully 
Mine own prerogative, and degrade the realm 
By seeking justice at a stranger's hand 
Against my natural subject. King and Queen, 
To whom he owes his loyalty after God, 
Shall these accuse him to a foreign prince? 
Death would not grieve him more. I cannot be 
True to this realm of England and the Pope 
Together, says the heretic. 

Pole. And there errs; 

As he hath ever err'd thro' vanity. 
A secular kingdom is but as the body 
Lacking a soul ; and in Itself a beast. 
The Holy Father in a secular kingdom 
Is as the soul descending out of heaven 
Into a body generate. 

Mary. Write to him, theu. 

Pole. I will. 

Mary. And sharply, Pole. 

Pole. Here come the Craumerites ! 

Enter Thirluy, Loud Paget, Lord William HowAEt). 

Hoipard. Health to your Grace ! Good morrow, my 
Lord Cardinal ; 
We make our humble prayer unto your Grace 
That Cranmer may. withdraw to foreign parts. 
Or into private life within the realm. 
In several bills and declarations, Madam, 
He hath recanted all his heresies. 

Paget. Ay, ay ; if Bonner have not forged the bills. 

[Aside, 

Mary. Did not More die, and Fisher ? he must burn. 

Howard. He hath recanted, Madam. 

Mary. The better for him. 

He burns in imrgatory, not in hell. 

Howard. Ay, ay, your Grace ; but it was never seen 
That any one recanting thus at full, 
As Cranmer hath, came to the fire on earth. 

Slary. It will be seen now, then. 

Thirlby. O Madam, Madam ! 

I thus implore you, low upon my knees, 
To reach the hand of mercy to my friend. 
I have err'd with him ; with him I have recanted. 
What human reason is there why my friend 
Should meet with lesser mercy than myself? 

Mary. My Lord of Ely, this: After a riot 
We hang the leaders, let their following go. 
Cranmer is head and father of these heresies. 
New learning, as they call it ; yea, may God 
Forget me at most need when I forget 
Her foul divorce — my sainted mother— No 1 — 

Hoioard. Ay, ay, but mighty doctors doubted there. 
The Pope himself waver'd ; and more than one 
llow'd in that galley— Gardiner, to wit, 



Whom truly I deny not to have been 
Your faithful friend and trusty councillor. 
Hath not your Highness ever read his book. 
His tractate upon True Obedience, 
Writ by himself and Bonner? 

Mary. I will take 

Such order with all bad, heretical books v 
That none shall hold them in his house and live. 
Henceforward. No, my Lord. 

Hoivard. Then never read it. 

The truth is here. Your father was a man 
Of such colossal kiughood, j'et so courteous. 
Except when wroth, you scarce could meet his eye 
And hold your own ; and were he wroth indeed. 
You held it less, or not at all. I say. 
Your father had a will that beat men down ; 
Your father had a brain that beat men down — 

Pole. Not me, my Lord. 

Howard. No, for you were not here; 

You sit upon this fallen Cranmer's throne ; 
And it would more become you, my Lord Legate, 
To join a voice, so potent with her Highness, 
To ours in plea for Cranmer tha;i to stand 
On naked self-assertion. 

Mary. All your voices 

Are waves on flint. The heretic must burn. 

Howard. Yet once he saved your Majesty's own life ; 
Stood out against the King in your behalf, 
At his own peril. 

Mary. I know not if he did ; 

And if he did I care not, my Lord Howard. 
My life is not so happy, no such boon. 
That I should spare to take a heretic priest's 
Who saved it or not saved. Why do you vex me ? 

Paget. Yet to save Cranmer were to serve the 
Church, 
Your Majesty's, I mean ; he is effaced. 
Self-blotted out ; so wounded in his honor, 
He can but creep down into some dark hole 
Like a hurt beast, and hide himself and die; 
But if you burn him,— well, your Highness knows 
The saying, "Martyr's blood— seed of the Church." 

Mary. Of the true Church; but his is none, nor 
will be. 
You are too politic for me, my Lord Paget. 
And if he have to live so loath'd a life. 
It were more merciful to burn him now. 

Thirlby. O yet relent. O Madam, if you knew him 
As I do, ever gentle, and so gracious, 
With all his learning — 

Mary. Yet a heretic si ill. 

His learning makes his burning the moie just. 

Thirlby. So worshipt of all those that came across 
him ; 
The stranger at his hearth, and all his house — 

Mary. His children and his concubine, belike. 

Thirlby. To do him any wrong was to beget 
A kindness from him, for his heart was rich, 
Of such fine mould that if you sow'd therein 
The seed of Hate, it blossom'd Charity. 

Pole. "After his kind it costs him nothing," there's 
An old-world English adage to the point. 
These are but natural graces, my good Bishop, 
Which in the Catholic garden are as flowers. 
But on the heretic dunghill only weeds. 

Howard. Such weedi?niake dunghills gracious. 

Mary. Enough, my Lords. 

It is God's will, the Holy Father's will. 



296 



QUEEN MARY. 



And Philip's will, and mine, that he should buru. 
He is j)rououuced anathema. 

Howard. Farewell, Madam. 

God gvaiit you ampler mei'cy at your call 
Thau you have shown to Craumer. [Exeunt Lords. 

Pole. After this, 

Your Grace will hardly care to overlook 
This same petition of the foreign exiles 
For Craumer's life. 

Mary. Make out the writ to-night. 

iExeunt. 



SCENE II.— OXFORD. CEANMER IN 
PRISON. 

Cranmcr. Last night, I dream'd the faggots were 
alight, 
And that myself was fasten'd to the stake, 
And found it all a visionary flame. 
Cool as the light in old decaying wood; 
And then King Harry look'd from out a cloud, 
And bade me have good courage ; and I heard 
An angel cry, "There is more joy in heaven," — 
And after that, the trumpet of the dead. 

[Trunnjicts without. 
Why, there are trumpets blowing now : what is it ? 

Enter Fathee Cole. 

Cole. Cranmer, I come to question you again : 
Have you remain'd in the true Catholic faith 
I left you in ? 

Cranmer. In the true Catholic faith, 
By Heaven's grace, I am more and more confirm'd. 
Why are the trumpets blowing, Father Cole? 

Cole. Craumer, it is decided by the Council 
That you to-day should read your recantation 
Before the people in Saint Mary's Church. 
And there be many heretics in the town, 
Who loathe you for your late return to Rome, 
And might assail you passing through the street. 
And tear you piecemeal : so you have a guard. 

Cranmer. Or seek to rescue me. I thank the Council. 

Cole. Do you lack any money ? 

Cranmer. Nay, why should I ? 

The prison fare is good enough for me. 

Cole. Ay, but to give the poor. 

Cranmer. Hand it me, then ! 

I thank you. 

Cule. For a little space, farewell ; 

Until I see you in St. Mary's Church. [Exit Cole. 

Cranmer. It is against all prccedeut to buru 
One who recants ; they mean to pardon me. 
To give the poor — they give the poor who die. 
Well, burn me or not burn me, I am fist ; 
It is but a communion, not a mass: 
A holy supper, not a sacrilice ; 
No man can make his maker — Villa Garcia. 

Enter Villa Gakoia. 

Villa Garcia. Pray you write out this paper for me, 

Cranmer. 
Cranmer. Have I not writ enough to satisfy you ? 
Villa Garcia. It is the last. 
Cranmer. Give it me, then. 

[ffc lorites. 
Villa Garcia. Now sign. 

Cranmer. I have sign'd enough, and I will sign no 

more. 
Villa Garcia. It is no more than what you have 
sign'd already. 
The public form thereof. 

Cranmer. It may be so; 

I sign it with my presence, if I read it. 

Villa Garcia. But this is idle of you. Well, sir, well. 
You are to beg the people to pray for you ; 
Exhort them to a pure and virtuous life; 
Declare the Queen's right to the throne ; coufess 



Your faith before all hearers ; and retract 
That eucharistic doctrine in your book. 
Will you not sign it now? 

Cranmer. No, Villa Garcia, 

I sign no more. Will they have mercy on me ? 

Villa Garcia. Have you good hopes of mercy ! So, 
farewell. [Exit. 

Cranmer. Good hopes, not theirs, have I that I am 
flxt, 
Fixt beyond fall ; however, in strange hours. 
After the long brain-dazing colloquies. 
And thousand-times-recurring argument 
Of those two friars ever in my prison. 
When left alone in my despondency. 
Without a friend, a book, my faith would seem 
Dead or half-drowu'd, or else swam heavily 
Against the huge corruptions of the Church, 
Monsters of mistradition, old enough 
To scare me into dreaming, "What am I, 
Cranmer, against whole ages?" was it so, 
Or am I slandering my most inward friend. 
To veil the fault of my most outward foe— 
The soft and tremulous coward in the flesh ? 

higher, holier, earlier, purer church, 

1 have found thee, and not leave thee any more. 
It is but a communion, not a mass — 

No sacrifice, but a life-giving feast I 

(Writes). So, so; this will I say— thus will I pray. 

[Puts up the paper. 

Enter Bonnek. 

Bonner. Good day, old friend. What! you look 

somewhat worn : 
And yet it is a day to test your health 
Ev'n at the best. I scarce have spoken with you 
Since when ? — your degradation. At your trial 
Never stood up a bolder man than you ; 
You would not cap the Pope's commissioner— 
Your learning, and your stoutness, and your heresy, 
Dumbfounded half of us. So, after that. 
We had to dis-archbishop and uulord. 
And make yon simple Cranmer once again. 
The common barber dipt your hair, and I 
Scraped from your flnger-points the holy oil ; 
And, worse than all, you had to kneel to me: 
Which was not pleasant for you, Master Craumer. 
Now you, that would not recognize the Pope, 
And you, that would not own the Real Presence, 
Have found a real presence in the stake. 
Which frights you back into the ancient faith ; 
And so you have recanted to the Pope. 
How are the mighty fallen. Master Cranmer ! 
Cranmer. You have been more fierce against the 

Pope than I • 
But why fling back the stone he strikes me with? 

[Aside, 

Bonner, if I ever did you kindness — 
Power hath been given you to try faith by fire- 
Pray you, remembering how y()nrself have changed. 
Be somewhat pitiful, after I have gone. 

To the poor flock— to women and to children-— 
That when I was archbishop held with me. 

Bonner. x\y— gentle as they call you— live or die ! 
Pitiful to this pitiful heresy? 

1 must obey the Queen and Council, man. 
Win thro' this day with honor to yourself, 

And I'll say something for you ; so, good-bye. [Exit. 
Cranmer. This hard coarse man of old hath crouch'd 
to me 
Till I myself was half ashamed for him. 

Enter Thielby. 

Weep not, good Thirlby. 

Thirlby. Oh, my Lord, my Lord ! 

My heart is no such block as Bonner's is: 
Who would not weep ? 

Cranmer. Why do you so my-lord me, 

Who am disgraced? 



QUEEN MARY. 



297 



Thirlhy. Oo earth ; but saved iu heaven 

By your recautiug. 

Cranmer. Will they buru me, Thirlby ? 

Thirlhy. Alas, they will ! These buruiugs will not 
help 
The purpose of the faith ; but my poor voice 
Agalust them is a whisper to the roar 
Of a spring-tide. 

Cranmer. Aud they will surely buru me? 

Thirlhy. Ay; aud, besides, will have you iu the 
church 
Repeat your recautatiou in the ears 
Of all men, to the saving of their souls, 
Before your execution. May God help you 
Thro' that hard hoar. 

Cranmer. And may God bless you, Thirlby. 

Well, they shall hear my recantation there. 

[Exit TuiRLiiv. 
Disgraced, dishouor'd !— not by them, indeed, 
By mine own self— by mine own hand ! 

thin-skinn'd hand aud jutting veins, 'twas you 
That sign'd the burning of poor Joan of Kent! 
But theu she was a witch. You have written much. 
But you were never raised to plead for Frith, 
Whose dogmas I have reach'd : he was deliver'd. 

To the secular arm to buru ; and there was Lambert ; 
Who can foresee himself? Truly these burnings. 
As Thirlby says, are profitless to the baruers, 
Aud help the other side. You shall burn too, 
Buru first when I am burnt. 
Fire— inch by inch to die iu agony! Latimer 
Had a brief end— not Ridley. Hooper burn'd 
Three-quarters of an hour. Will ray faggots 
Be wet as his were ? It is a day of rain. 

1 will not muse upon it. 

My fancy takes the burner's part, and makes 
The fire seem even crueller than it is. 
No, I uot doubt that God will give me strength, 
Albeit I have deuied him. 

Enter Soto and Villa. Gakoia. 

Villa Garcia. We are ready 

To take you to St. Mary's, Master Cranmer. 

Cranmer. And I : lead on ; ye loose me from my 
bonds. [Exeunt. 



SCEXE III.— ST. IMARY'S CHURCH. 

Cole in the Pulpit, Loan Williams o/Tiiame presid- 
ing. LoKD William Howard, Lord Paget, and 
others. Cranmer enters hetween Soto and Villa 
Garcia, and the whole Choir strike up "Nunc 
Dimittis." Ceanmer is set upon a Scaffold hefore 
the peo2)le. 

Cole. Behold him — 

[A 2Muse; people in the foreground. 

People. Oh, unhappy sight ! 

First Protestant. See how the tears run down his 
fatherly face. 

Second Protestant. James, didst thou ever see a car- 
rion crow 
Stand watching a sick beast before he dies ? 

First Protestant. Him pcrch'd up there ? I wish 
some thunderbolt 
Would make this Cole a cinder, pulpit and all. 

Cole. Behold him, brethren : he hath cause to 
weep ! — 
So have we all : weep with him if ye will. 
Yet— 

It is expedient for one man to die. 
Yea, for the people, lest the people die. 
Yet wherefore should he die that hath returu'd 
To the one Catholic Universal Church, 
Repentant of his errors ? 

Protestant murmurs. Ay, tell us that. 

Cole. Those of the wroug side will despise the man, 
Deeming him one that thro' the fear of death 



Gave up his cause, except he seal his faith 
In sight of all with flaming martyrdom. 

Cranmer. Ay. 

Cole. Ye hear him, and albeit there may seem 
According to the canons pardon due 
To him that so repents, yet are there causes 
Wherefore our Queen and Council at this time 
Adjudge him to the death. He hath beeu a traitor, 
A shaker and confounder of the realm ; 
And when the King's divorce was sued at Rome, 
He here, this heretic metropolitan. 
As if he had beeu the Holy Father, sat 
Aud judged it. Did I call him heretic? 
A huge heresiarch ! Never was it known 
That any man so writing, preaching so. 
So poisoning the Church, so long continuing, 
Hath found his pardon ; therefore he must die, 
For warning and example. 

Other reasons 
There be for this man's euding, which our Queeu 
And Council at this present deem it uot 
Expedient to be known. 

Protestant murmurs. I warrant you. 

Cole. Take therefore, all, example by this man; 
For if our holy Queeu not pardon him, 
Much less shall others in like cause escape, 
That all of you, the highest as the lowest. 
May learn there is no power against the Lord. 
There stands a n.an, once of so high degree, 
Chief prelate of our Church, archbishop, first 
In Council, second person iu the realm, 
Friend for so long time of a mighty King; 
And now ye see downfalleu aud debased 
From councillor to caitiff — fallen so low. 
The leprous flutteriugs of the byway, scum 
And off'al of the city, would uot change 
Estates with him ; in brief, so miserable, 
There is no hope of better left for him. 
No place for worse. 

Yet, Cranmer, be thou glad. 
This is the work of God. He is glorified 
In thy conversion : lo I thou art reclaim'd ; 
He briugs thee home : uor fear but that to-day 
Thou shall receive the penitent thief's award. 
And be with Christ the Lord in Paradise. 
Remember how God made the fierce fire seem 
To those three children like a pleasant dew. 
Remember, too, 

The triumph of St. Andrew on his cross. 
The patience of St. Lawrence in the fire. 
Thus, if thou call on God and all the saints, 
God will beat down the fury of the flame. 
Or give thee saintly strength to undergo. 
And for thy soul shall masses here be snug 
By every priest in Oxford. Pray for him. 

Cranmer. Ay, one and all, dear brothers, pray foi 
me ; 
Pray with one breath, one heart, one soul for me. 

Cole. And now, lest anyone among you doubt 
The man's conversion and remorse of heart. 
Yourselves shall hear him speak. Speak, Master Cran» 

mer. 
Fulfil your promise made me, and proclaim 
Your true undoubted faith, that all may hear. 

Cranmer. And that I will. O God, Father of heav' 
en ! 
O Son of God, Redeemer of the world ! 

Holy Ghost ! proceeding from them both. 
Three persons and one God, have mercy on me, 
Most miserable sinner, wretched man. 

1 have offended against heaven and earth 
More grievously than any tongue can tell. 
Then whilhnr sh(mld I flee for any help? 
I am ashamed to lift my eyes to heaven. 
And I can find no refuge upon earth. 
Shall I despair then ? God forbid ! O God, 
For thou art merciful, refasing none 

That come to Thee for succor, unto Thee, 



298 



QUEEN MARY. 



Therefore, I come ; humble myself to Thee ; 

Snyiug, O Lord God, although my sins be great, 

For thy great mercy have mercy ! O God the Son, 

Not for slight faults aloue, when thou becamest 

Man in the Flesh, was the great mystery wrought ; 

O God the Father, not for little sins 

Didst thou yield up thy Son to human death ; 

But for the greatest sin that can be sinn'd. 

Yea, even such as mine, incalculable, 

Unpardonable, — sin against the light. 

The truth of God, which I had proven and known. 

Thy mercy must be greater than all sin. 

Forgive me, Father, for no merit of mine, 

But that Tliy name by man be glorified. 

And Thy mo.st blessed Son's, who died for man. 

Good people, every man at time of death 
Would fain set forth some saying that may live 
After his death and better humankind ; 
For death gives life's last word a power to live, 
Aud, like the stone-cut epitaph, remain 
After the vanish'd voice, and speak to men. 
God grant me grace to glorify my God ! 
And first I say it is a grievous case. 
Many so dote upon this bubble world, 
Whose colors in a moment break aud fly. 
They care for nothing else. What saith St. John ?- 
"Love of this world is hatred against God." 
Again, I pray you all that, next to God, 
You do unmnrmuringly and willingly 
Obey your King and Queen, and not for dread 
Of these alone, but from the fear of Him 
Whose ministers they be to govern you. 
Thirdly, 1 pray you all to love together 
Like brethren ; yet what hatred Christian men 
Bear to each other, seeming not as brethren, 
But mortal foes ! But do you good to all 
As much as in you Helh. Hurt no man more 
Thau you would harm your loving natural brother 
Of the same roof, same breast. If any do. 
Albeit he think himself at home with God, 
Of this be sure, he is wliole worlds away. 

Protestant murmurs. What sort of brothers then be 
those that lust 
To burn each other ? 

Williams. Peace among yon, there. 

Cranmer. Fourthly, to those that own exceeding 
wealth, 
Remember that sore saying spoken once 
By Him that w-as the truth, "How hard it is 
For the rich man to enter into heaven !" 
Let all rich men remember that hard word. 
I have not time fv)r more: if ever, now 
Let them flow forth in charity, seeing now 
The poor so many, and all food so dear. 
Long have I lain in prisini, yet have heard 
Of all their wretchedness. Give to the poor. 
Ye give to God. He is with ns in the poor. 

And now, and forasmuch as I have come 
To the last end of life, and thereupon 
Hangs all my past, and all my life to be, 
Either to live with Christ in heaven with joy, 
Or to be still in jiain with devils in hell ; 
And, seeing in a moment I shall find 

[Pointing ujnDards. 
Heaven or else hell ready to swallow me, 

[Pointing dnivnwards. 
I shall declare to you my very faith 
Without all color. 

Cole. Hear him, my good brethren. 

Cranmer. 1 do believe in God, Father of all ; 
In every article of the Catholic faith. 
And every syllable taught us by our Lord, 
His jirophets, aud apostles, in the Testaments, 
Both Old and New. 

Cole. Be plainer, Master Cranmer. 

Cranmer. And now I come to the great cause that 
weighs 
Upon my conscience more than anything 



Or said or done in all my life by me ; 
For there be writings I have set abroad 
Against the truth I knew within my heart. 
Written for fear of death, to save my life. 
If that might be ; the papers by my hand 
Sign'd since my degradation— by this hand 

[Holding out his right hand. 
Written and sign'd— I here renonnce them all; 
And, since my hand offended, having written 
Against my heart, my hand shall first be burnt. 
So I may come to the fire. [Dead silence. 

[Protestant murmurs. 
First Protestant. I knew it would be so. 
Second Protestant. Our prayers arc heard ! 

Third Protestant. God bless him ! 
Catholic murm,urs. Out upon him ! out upon him ! 
Liar! dissembler! traitor! to the fire! 

Williams (raising his voice). You know that you re- 
canted all you said 
Touching the sacrament in that same book 
You wrote against my Lord of Winchester. 
Dissemble not ; play the plain Christian man. 

Cranmer. Alas ! my Lord, 
I have been a man loved plainness all my life; 
I did dissemble, but the hour has come 
For utter truth aud plainness; wherefore, I say, 
I hold by all I wrote within that book. 
Moreover, 

As for the Pope I count him Antichrist, 
With all his devil's doctrines ; and refuse. 
Reject him, and abhor him. I have said. 

[Cries on all sides, "Pull him down ! Away with 
him !" 
Cole. Aye, stop the heretic's mouth. Hale liini away. 
Williams. Harm him not, harm him not, have him 
to the fire. 
[CuANMKR goes out betieeen two Friars, smiling; 
hands are reached to him from the crowd. Loiti> 
Wii,i.i.\M HowAKD and Loud Pagict are left alone 
in. the church. 
Paget. The nave and aisles all empty as a fool's jest ! 
No, here's Lord William Howard. What, my Lord ! 
You have not gone to see the burning 'i 

Howard. Fie ! 

To stand at ease, and stare as at a sliow. 
And watch a good man burn. Never again. 
I saw the deaths of Latimer and Ridley. 
Moreover, tho' a Catholic, I would not. 
For the pure honor of our common nature, 
Hear what I might— another recantation 
Of Cranmer at the stake. 

Paget. You'd not hear that. 

He pass'd out smiling, and he walk'd upright; 
His eye was like a soldier's, whom the general 
He looks to aud he leans on as his God, 
Hath rated for some backwardness and bidd'n him 
Charge one against a thousand, and the man 
Hurls his soil'd life against the pikes and dies. 

Howard. Yet that he might not, after all those papers 
Of recantation, yield again, who knows? 

Paget. Papers of recantation ! Think you then 
That Cranmer read all papers that he sign'd? 
Or sign'd all those they tell us that he sign'd? 
Nay, I trow not: and you sh;ill see, my Lord, 
That howsoever hero-like the man 
Dies in the fire, this Bonner or another 
Will in some lying fashion misreport 
His ending to the gloiy of their church. 
And you saw Latimer and Ridley dii^ ? 
Latimer was eighty, was he not ? His best 
Of life was over then. 

Howard. His eighty years 

Look'd somewhat crooked on him in his frieze; 
But after they had stript him to his shroud, 
He stood n))right, a lad of tvventj»-one, 
And gather'd with his hands the starting flame, 
And wash'd his hands and all his face therein. 
Until the powder suddenly blew him dead. 



QUEEN MARY. 



209 



Kidley was louger burning, but he died 
As manfully and boldly; and, 'fore God, 
I know them heretics, but right English ones. 
If ever, as Heaven grant, we clash with Spain, 
Our Ridley-soldiers and our Latimer-sailors 
Will teach her something. 

Paget. Your mild Legate Pole 

Will tell you that the devil helpt them thro' it. 

[^1 murmur of the croicd in the distance. 
Hark, how those Roman wolfdogs howl and bay him. 

Howard. Might it not be the other side rejoicing 
In his brave end ? 

Paget. They are too crush'd, too broken, 

They can but weep in silence. 

Hoicard. Ay, ay, Paget, 

They have brought it iu large measure ou them- 
selves. 
Have I not heard them mock the blessed Host 
In songs so lewd, the beast might roar his claim 
To being in God's image more thau they? 
Have I not seen the gamekeeper, the groom, 
Gardener, and huntsman, in the parson's place, 
The parson from his own spire swung out dead. 
And Ignorance crying iu the streets, and all men 
Regarding her? I say they have drawn the tire 
On their ov/n heads: yet, Paget, I do hold 
The Catholic, if he have the greater right, 
Hath been the crueller. 

Paget. Action and reaction, 

The miserable see-saw of our child-world, 
Make us despise it at odd hours, my Lord. 
Heaven help that this reaction not react, 
Yet flercelier under Queen Elizabeth, 
So that she come to rule us. 

Hotcani. The world's mad. 

Paget. My Lord, the world is like a drunken man. 
Who cannot move straight to his end — but reels 
Now to the right, then as far to the left, 
Pash'd by the crowd beside — and underfoot 
All earthquake ; for since Henry for a doubt — 
Which a young lust had clapt upcm the back. 
Crying, "Forward" — set our old church rocking, men 
Have hardly known what to believe, or whether 
They should believe in anything ; the currents 
So shift and change, they see not how they are borne. 
Nor whither. I conclude the King a beast : 
Verily a lion, if you will— the world 
A most obedient beast and fool — myself 
Half beast and fool as appertaining to it; 
Altho' your Lordship hath as little of each 
Cleaving to your original Adam-clay 
As may be consonant with mortality. 

Hoxmrd. We talk, and Craumer suffers. 
The kindliest man I ever knew; see, see, 
T speak of him in the past. Unhappy land ! 
Hard-natured Queen, half Spanish in herself, 
And grafted on the hard-grain'd stock of Spain — 
Her life, since Philip left her, and she lost 
Her fierce desire of bearing him a child, 
Hath, like a brief and bitter winter's day. 
Gone narrowing down and darkening to a c'.ose. 
There will be more conspiracies, I fear. 

Paget. Ay, ay, beware of France. 

Howard. O Paget, Paget ! 

I have seen heretics of the poorer sort. 
Expectant of the rack from day to day, 
To whom the fiie were welcome, lying chain'd 
In breathless dungeons over steaming sewers, 
Fed with rank bread that crawl'd upcm the tongue. 
And putrid water, every drop a worm, 
Until they died of rotten limbs; and then 
Cast on the dunghill naked, and become 
Hideously alive again from head to heel. 
Made even the carrion-nosing mongrel vomit 
With hate and horror. 

Paget. Nay, you sicken me 

To hear you. 

Howard. Fancy-sick ; these things are done, 



Done right against the promise of this Queen 
Twice given. 

Paget. No faith with heretics, my Lord I 

Hist ! there be two old gossips— Gospellers, 
I take it ; stand behind the pillar here ; 
I warrant you they talk about the burning. 

Enter Two Old Women. Joan, and after her Tib. 

Joan. Why, it be Tib. 

Tib. I cum behind tha, gall, and couldn't make tha 
hear. Eh, the wind and the wet ! What a day, what 
a day! uigh npo' judgment-daay loike. Pwoaps be 
jiretty things, Joan, but they wuut set i' the Lord's 
cheer o' that day. 

Joan. I must set down myself, Tib ; it be a var waay 
vor my owld legs up vio' Islip. Eh, my rheumatizy be 
that bad howiver be I to win the burnin'. 

Tib. I should saay 'twur ower by now. I'd ha' been 
here avore, but Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, and 
Bumble's the best milcher iu Islip. 

Joan. Our Daisy's as good 'z her. 

Tib. Noa, .Joan. 

Joan. Our Daisy's butter's as good 'z hern. 

Tib. Noa, Joan. 

Joan. Our Daisy's cheeses be better. 

Tib. Noa, Joan. 

Joan. Ell, then ha' thy way wi' me, Tib ; ez thoa 
hast wi' thy owld man. 

Tib. Ay, Joan, and ray owld man wur up and awaay 
betimes wi' dree hard eggs for a good pleace at the 
burnin'; and barrin' the wet, Hodge 'ud ha' been a-har- 
rowin' o' white peasen i' the outtield— and barriu' the 
wind, Dnmble wur blow'd wi' the wind, so 'z we was 
forced to stick her, but we fetched her round at last. 
Thank the Lord, therevore. Dumble's the best milcher 
in Islip. 

Joan. Thou's thy way wi' man and beast, Tib. I 
wonder at tha', it beats me ! Eh, but I do know ez 
Pwoaps and vires be bad things ; tell 'ee now, I heard 
summat as summnu towld summun o' owld Bishop 
Gardiner's end ; there wur an owld lord a-cum to dine 
wi' nil, and a wur so owld a couldn't bide vor his din- 
ner, but a had to bide howsomiver, vor "I wnut dine," 
says my Lord Bishop, says he, " not till I hears ez Lat- 
imer and Ridley be a-vire ;" and so they bided on and 
ou till vour o' the clock, till his man cum in post vro' 
here, and tells uu ez the vire has tuk holt, "Now," 
says the bishop, says he, "we'll gwo to dinner;" and 
the owld lord fell to 's meat wi' a will, God bless un ; 
but Gardiner wur struck down like by the hand o' God 
avore a could taste a mossel, and a set him all a-vire, 
so'z the tongue on uu cum a-lolluping out o' 'is mouth 
as black as a rat. Thank the Lord, therevore. 

Paget. The fools ! 

Tib. Ay, Joan ; and Queen Mary gwocs ou a-burn- 
iu' and a-burnin', to git her baaby born; l)ut all her 
burnin's'ill never burn out the hypocrisy that makes 
the water in her. There's nought but the vire of God's 
hell ez can burn out that. 

Joan. Thank the Lord, therevore. 

Paget. The fools I 

Tib. A-burnin', and a-burnin', and a-makin' o' volk 
madder and madder; but tek thou my word vor't, 
Joan — and I bean't wrong not twice i' ten j'ear — the 
burnin' o' the owld archbishop 'ill burn the Pwoap 
out o' this 'ere land vor iver and iver. 

Howard. Out of the church, you brace of cursed 
crones. 
Or I will have you duck'd. (Women hurry out.) Said 

I not right? 
For how should reverend prelate or throned prince 
Brook for an hour such brute malignity? 
Ah, what an acrid wine has Luther brew'd! 

Paget. Pooh, pooh, my Lord ! poor garrulous coun- 
try wives. 
Buy you their cheeses, and they'll side with yon ; 
You cannot judge the liquor from the lees. 

Howard. I think that in some sort we may. But see, 



300 



QUEEN MARY. 



Enter Pktf.rs. 

Peters, my geutlenian, an honest Catholic, 
Who follow'd with the cfowd to Cranmer's lire. 
One that would ueitlier misreport nor lie, 
Not to gain paradise : no, nor if the Pope 
Charged him to do it — he is white as death. 
Peters, how pale you look ! you bring the smoke 
Of Craumer's burning with you. 

Peters. Twice or thrice 

The smoke of Craumer's burning wrapt me round. 

Howard. Peters, you know me Catholic, but English. 
Did he die bravely ? Tell me that, or leave 
All else untold. 

Peterx. My Lord, he died most bravely. 

Hov}ard. Then tell me all. 

Paget. Ay, Master Peters, tell us. 

Peters. Yon saw him how he past among the crowd ; 
And ever as he walk'd the Spanish friars 
Still plied him with entreaty and reproach: 
But Cranmer, as the helmsman at the helm 
Steers, ever looking to the happy haven 
Where he shall rest at night, moved to his death ; 
And I could see that many silent hands 
Came from the crowd and met his own ; and thus, 
"When we had come where Ridley burnt with Latimer, 
He, with a cheerful smile, as one whose mind 
Is all made up, in haste put off the rags 
They had niock'd his misery with, and all in white. 



His long white beard, which he had never shaven 

Since Henry's death, down-sweeping to the chain 

Wherewith they bound him to the stake, he stood, 

More like an ancient father of the Church 

Than heretic of tliese times ; and still the friars 

Plied him, but Cranmer only shook his head. 

Or answer'd them in smiling negatives ; 

Whereat Lord Williams gave a sudden cry :— 

" Make short ! make short !" and so they lit the wood, 

Then Cranmer lifted his left hand to heaven, 

And thrust his right into the bitter flame ; 

And crying, in his deep voice, more than once, 

"This hath offended— this unworthy hand 1" 

So held it till it all was burn'd, before 

The flame had reach'd his body. I stood near — 

Mark'd him — he never uttered moan of pain ; 

He never stirr'd or writhed, but, like a statue, 

Uumoving in the greatness of the flame. 

Gave up the ghost ; and so past martyr-like— 

Martyr I may not call him — past — but whither? 

Paget. To purgatory, man, to purgatory. 

Peters. Nay, but, my Lord, he denied purgatory. 

Paget. Why, then to heaven, and God ha' mercy on 
him. 

Howard. Paget, despite his fearful heresies, 
I loved the man, and needs must moan for him ; 
O Cranmer ! 

Paget. But your moan is useless now: 

Come out, my Lord, it is a world of fools. [Exeunt, 



ACT V. 



SCENE I.- 



-LONDON. HALL IN THE 
PALACE. 



Queen, Sik Nicholas Heatu. 

Heath. Madam, 
I do assure you that it must be look'd to: 
Calais is but ill-garrison'd, in Guisnes 
Are scarce two hundred men, and the French fleet 
Eule in the narrow seas. It must be look'd to. 
If war should fiill between yourself and France; 
Or you will lose your Calais. 

Mary. It shall be look'd to ; 

I wish you a good-morning, good Sir Nicholas : 
Here is the King. lExit Heath. 

Enter Puilip. 

Philip. Sir Nicholas tells you true, 

And you must look to Calais when I go. 

Mary. Go ! must you go, indeed— again— so soon ? 
Why, nature's licensed vagaboud, the swallow. 
That might live always in the sun's warm heart, 
Stays longer here in our poor north than you— 
Knows where he nested —ever comes again. 

Philip. And, Madam, so shall I. 

Mary. Oh, will you f will you ? 

I am faint with fear that you will come no more. 

Philip. Ay, ay ; but many voices call me hence. 

Mary. Voices — I hear unhappy rumors — nay, 
I say not, I believe. What voices call you 
Dearer than mine that sliould be dearest to you ? 
Alas, my Lord ! what voices, iind how many? 

Philip. The voices of Castile and Aragon, 
Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan— 
The voices of Pranche-Comtc, and the Netherlands, 
The voices of Peru and Mexico, 
Tunis, and Oran, and tlie Philippines, 
And all the fair spice-islands of the East. 

Mary (admiringly). You are the mightiest monarch 
ujjon earth. 



I but a little Queen ; and so, indeed. 
Need you the more ; and wherefore could you not 
Helm the huge vessel of your state, my liege, 
Here, by the side of her who loves you most ? 

Philip. No, Madam, no ; a candle in the sun 
Is all but smoke— a star beside the moon 
Is all but lost ; your people will not crown me — 
Your people are as cheerless as your clime; 
Ilate me and mine : witness the brawls, the gibbets. 
Here swings a Spaniard — there an Englishman ; 
The peoi)les are unlike as their complexion ; 
Yet will I.be your swallow and return- 
But now I cannot bide. 

Mary. Not to help me ? 

They hate me also for my love to you. 
My Philip; and these judgments on the land — 
Harvestless autumns, horrible agues, plague— 

Philip. Tlie blood and sweat of heretics at the stake 
Is God's best dew upon the barren tield. 
Burn more ! 

3[ary. I will, I will ; and yon will stay. 

Philip. Have I not said ? Madam, I came to sue 
Your Council and yourself to declare war. 

Mary. Sir, there are many English in your lanks 
To help your battle. 

Philip. So far, good. I say 

I came to sue your Council and yourself 
To declare war against the King of France. 

Mary. Not to see me ? 

Philip. Ay, Madam, to see you. 

Unalterably and jjesteringly fond ! [Aside. 

But, soon or late you must have war with France ; 
King Henry warms your traitors at his hearth. 
Carew is there, and Thomas Stafford there. 
Courtenay, belike — 

Mary. A fool and featherhead ! 

Philip. Ay, but they use his name. In brief, this 
Henry 
Stirs up your land against you to the intent 
That you may lose your English heritage. 



QUEEN MAKY. 



301 



And theu,yoiir Scottish iiamesiike niai-ryiug 
The DiUiphiu, he would weld France, England, Scot- 
laud, 
Into one sword to hack at Spain and me. 

Mart/. And yet the Pope is now colleagued with 
France ; 
You make your wars upon him down in Italy: — 
Philip, can that be well ? 

Philip. Content you. Madam ; 

You must abide my judgment, and my father's, 
Who deems it a most just and holy war. 
The Pope would cast the Spaniard out of Naples: 
He calls us worse than Jews, Moors, Saracens. 
The Pope has push'd his horns beyond his mitre — 
Beyond his province. Now, 
Duke Alva will but touch him on the horns, 
And he withdraws ; and of his holy head— 
For Alva is true sou of the true church — 
No hair is harin'd. Will you not help me here ? 

Mary. Alas ! the Council will not hear of v.-ar. 
They say your wars are not the wars of England. 
They will not lay more taxes on a land 
So hunger-nipt and wretched ; and you know 
The crown is poor. We have given the church-lands 

back : 
The nobles would not; nay, they clapt their hands 
Upon their swords when ask'd ; and therefore God 
Is hard upon the people. What's to be done ? 
Sir, I will move them in your cause again. 
And we will raise us loans and subsidies 
Among the mei-chants ; and Sir Thomas Gresham 
Will aid us. There is Antwerp and the Jews. 

Philip. Madam, my thanks. 

Mary. And you will stay your goiug? 

Philip. And further to discourage and lay lame 
The plots of France, altho' yon love her not, 
You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir. 
She stands between you and the Queen of Scots. 

Mary. The Queen of Scots at least is Catholic. 

Philip. Ay, Madam, Catholic ; but I will not have 
The King of France the King of England too. 

Mary. But she's a heretic, and, when I am gone. 
Brings the new learning back. 

Philip. It must be done. 

You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir. 

Mary. Then it is done ; but you will stay your going 
Somewhat beyond your settled purpose ? 

Philip. No ! 

Mary. What, not one day ? 

Philip. You beat upon the rock. 

Mary. And I am broken there. 

Philip. Is this a place 

To wail in. Madam ? what 1 a public hall ! 
Go in, I pray you. 

Mary. Do not seem so changed. 

Say go ; but only say it lovingly. 

Philip. You do mistake. I am not one to change. 
I never loved you more. 

Mary. Sire, I obey you. 

Come quickly. 

Philip. Ay. {'Exit Mary. 

Enter Cohmt de Pebia. 

Feria {aside). The Queeu in tears. 

Philip. Feria! 

Hast thou not mark'd— come closer to mine ear- 
How doubly aged this Queen of ours hath grown 
Since she lost hope of bearing us a child ? 

Feria. Sire, if your Grace hath mark'd it, so have I. 

Philip. Hast thou not likewise mark'd Elizabeth, 
How fair and royal— like a Queen, indeed ? 

Feria. Allow me the same answer as before — 
That if your Grace hath mark'd her, so have I. 

Philip. Good, now ; methiuks my Queeu is like 
enough 
To leave me by-and-by. 

Feria. To leave you, sire ? 

Philip. I mean not like to live. Elizabeth — 



To Philibert of Savoy, as you know. 
We meant to wed her ; but I am not sure 
She will not serve me better— so my Queen 
Would leave me — as — my wife. 

Feria. Sire, even so. 

Philip. She will not have Prince Philibert of Savoy. 

Feria. No, sire. 

Philip. I have to pray you, some odd time, 
To sound the Princess carelessly on this; 
Not as from me, but as your phantasy ; 
And tell me how she takes it. 

Feria. Sire, I will. 

Philip. I am not certain but that Philibert 
Shall be the man ; and I shall urge his suit 
Upon the Queen, because I am not certain : 
You understand, Feria ? 

Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip). And if you be not secret in this matter, 
You understand me there, too ? 

Feria. Sire, I do. 

Philip. You must be sweet and supple, like a French- 
man. 
She Is none of those who loathe the honeycomb. 

[Ejcit Fekia. 

Enter Renaed. 

Renard. My liege, I bring you goodly tidings. 

Philip. Well. 

Renard. There will be war with France, at last, my 
liege ; 
Sir Thomas Staflford, a bull-headed ass, 
Sailing from France, with thirty Englishmen, 
Hath taken Scarboro' Castle, north of York ; 
Proclaims himself protector, and affirms 
The Queen has forfeited her right to reign 
By marriage with an alien — other things 
As idle ; a weak Wyatt ! Little doubt 
This buzz will soon be silenced I but the Council 
(I have talk'd with some already) are for war. 
This is the tifth conspiracy hatch'd in France; 
They show their teeth upon it ; and your Grace, 
So you will take advice of mine, should stny 
Yet for awhile, to shape and guide the event. 

Philip. Good ! Keuard, I will stay then. 

Renard. Also, sirs, 

Might I not say— to please your wife, the Queen ? 

Philip. Ay, Renard, if you care to put it so. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE II.— A ROOM IN THE PALACE. 

Mary and Cardinal Pole. 

Lady Ci-auence and Alice in the background. 

Mary. Reginald Pole, what news hath plagued thy 
lieart ? 
What makes thy favor like the bloodless head 
Fall'u on the block, and held up by the hair ? 
Philip?— 

Pole. No, Philip is as warm in life 
As ever. 

Mary. Ay, and then as cold as ever. 
Is Calais taken ? 

Pole. Cousin, there hath chanced 

A sharper harm to England and to Rome, 
Than Calais taken. Julius the Third 
Was ever just, and mild, and fatherlikc ; 
But this new Pope CarafTa, Paul the Fourth, 
Not only reft me of that legateship 
Which Julius gave me, and the legateship 
Aunex'd to Canterbury— nay, but worse — 
And yet I must obey the Holy Father, 
And so must you, good cousin ;— worse thau all, 
A passing bell toll'd in a dying ear- 
He hath cited me to Rome, for heresy, 
Before his Inquisition. 



302 



QUEEN MARY. 



Mary. I kuew it, cousin, 

But held from you all papers sent by Rome, 
That you might rest anioug us, till the Pope, 
To compass which I wrote myself to Rome, 
Reversed his doom, and that you might not seem 
To disobey his Holiness. 

Pole. He hates Philip ; 

He is all Italian, and he hates the Spaniard; 
He cannot dream that / advised the war ; 
He strikes thro' me at Philip and yourself. 
Nay, but I know it of old, he hates me too ; 
So brands me in the stare of Christendom 
A heretic ! 

Now, even now, when bow'd before my time, 
The house half-ruin'd ere the lease be out; 
When I should guide the Church in peace at home, 
After my twenty years of banishment, 
And all my lifelong labor to uphold 
The primacy— a heretic. Long ago, 
When I was ruler iu the patrimony, 
I was too lenient to the Lutheran, 
And I and learned friends among ourselves 
Would freely canvass certain Lutheranisms. 
What then ! he kuew I was uo Lutheran. 
A heretic ! 

He drew this shaft against me to the head. 
When it was thought I might be choseu Pope, 
But then withdrew it. In full consistory. 
When I was made archbishop, he approved me. 
And how should he have sent nie Legate hither, 
Deeming me heretic? and what heresy since ? 
But he was evermore mine enemy. 
And hates the Spaniard — tiery-choleric, 
A drinker of black, strong, volcanic wines. 
That ever make him fierier. I, a heretic ! 
Yonr Highness knows that in pursuing heresy 
I have gone beyond your late Lord Chancellor, — 
He cried "Enough ! enough !" before his death,— 
Gone beyond him and mine own natural man 
(It was God's cause) ; so far they call me now 
The scourge and butcher of their English church. 

Mary. Have courage, your reward is heaven itself. 

Pole. They groan amen ; they swarm into the fire 
Likeflies— for what? No dogma. They know noth- 
ing ; 
They burn for nothing. 

Mary. You have done your best. 

Pule. Have done my best, and as a faithful son. 
That all day long hath wrought his father's work. 
When back he comes at evening, hath the door 
Shut on him by the father whom he loved. 
His early follies cast into his teeth, 
And the poor son turn'd out into the street 
To sleep, to die — I shall die of it, cousin. 

Mary. I pray you be not so disconsolate ; 
I still will do mine utmost with the Pope. 
Poor cousin 1 

Have I not been the fast friend of your life 
Since mine began ? and it was thought we two 
Might make one flesh, and cleave unto each other 
As man and wife. 

Pole. Ah, cousin, I remember 

How I would dandle you upon my knee 
At lisping-age. I watch'd you dancing once 
With your huge father ; he look'd the Great Harry, 
You but his cockboat: prettily you did it, 
And innocently. No— we were not made 
One flesh in happincfes : no happiness here ; 
But now we are made one flesh in misery ; 
Our bridemaids are not lovely— Disappointment, 
Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue, 
Labor-in-vain. 

Mary. Surely, not all in vain. 

Peace, cousin, peace ! I am sad at heart myself. 

Pole. Our altar is a mound of dead men's clay, 
Dug from the grave that yawns for us beyond ; 
And there is one Death stands behind the Groom, 
And there is one Death stands behind the Bride— 



Mary. Have yon been looking at the "Dance of 
Death ?" 

Pole. No ; but these libellous papers which I found 
Strewn in your palace. Look you here — the Pope 
Pointing at me with "Pole, the heretic, 
Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn thyself. 
Or I will burn thee ;" and this other ; see ! — 
"We pray continually for the death 
Of our accursed Queen aud Cardinal Pole." 
This last— I dare not read it her. lAside. 

Mary. Away ! 

Why do you bring me these ? 
I thought you kuew me better. I never read, 
I tear thcni ; they come back upon my dreams. 
The hands that write them should be burnt cleau 

off 
As Cranmer's, and the fiends that utter them 
Tongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to death, or lie 
Famishing in black cells, while famish'd rats 
Eat them alive. Why do they bring me thpse? 
Do you mean to drive me mad? 

Pole. I had forgotten 

IIow these poor libels trouble you. Your pardon, 
Sweet cousin, and farewell, "O bubble world. 
Whose colors in a moment break and lly !" 
Why, who said that ? I know not— true enough ! 

IPuts II]) the }Mpers, all hut the last, u-hich falls. 
Exit Pole. 

Alice. If Cranmer's spirit were a mocking one, 
Aud heard these two, there might be sport for him. 

[Aside. 

Mary. Clarence, they hate me ; even while I speak 
There lurks a silent dagger, listening 
In some dark closet, some long gallery, drawn, 
Aud panting for my blood as I go by. 

Lady Clarence. Nay, Madam, there be loyal papers 
too, 
Aud I have often found them. 

Mary. Fiud me one! 

Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam; but Sir Nicholas Heath, 
the Chancellor, 
Would seo your Highness. 

Mary. Wherefore should I see him ? 

Lady Clarence. Well, Madam, he may briug you 
uevis from Philip. 

Mary. So, Clarence. 

Lady Claren-ce. Let me first put up your hair; 

It tumbles all abroad. 

Mary. And the gray dawu 

Of au old age that never will be mine 
Is all the clearer seen. No, uo ; what matters? 
Forlorn 1 am, and let me look forlorn. 

Enter Sik Nicholas Heatu. 

Heath. I bring your Majesty such grievous news 
I grieve to briug it. Madam, Calais is taken. 

Mary. What traitor spoke? Here, let my Cousiu 
Pole 
Seize him and burn him for a Lutheran. 

Heath. Her Highness is unwell. I will retire. 

Lady C'arence^ Madam, your Chancellor, Sir Nich- 
olas Heath. 

Mary. SirNicholas ? lamstunu'd— NicholasHeath? 
Methought some traitor smote me on the head. 
What said you, my good Lord, that our brave En- 
glish 
Had sallied out from Calais and driven back 
The Frenchmen from their trenches ? 

Heath. Alas! no 

That gateway to the mainland over which 
Our flag hath floated for two hundred years 
Is Frauce again. 

Mary. So ; but it is not lost— 

Not yet. Send out : let England, as of old. 
Rise lionlike, strike hard aud deep iuto 
The prey they are rending from h'n-- a)', and rend 
The renders too. Send out ! send out ! aud make 
Musters in all the counties ; gather all 



QUEEN MAKY. 



503 



From sixteen years to sixty ; collect the fleet ; 
Let every craft that carries sail and gnu 
Steer toward Calais. Guisnes is not taken yet? 
Heath. Guisues is not taken yet. 

Mary. There yet is hope. 

Heath. Ah, Madam, bnt your people are so cold ; 
I do ninch fear that England will not care. 
Methiuks there is no manhood left among us. 

Mary. Send out ; I am too weak to stir abroad: 
Tell my mind to the Council— to the Parliament: 
Proclaim it to the winds. Thou art cold thyself 
To babble of their coldness. Oh, would I were 
My father for an hour I Away now— quick ! 

[Exit Heath. 
I hoped I had served God with all my might ! 
It seems I have not. Ah ! much heresy 
Shelter'd in Calais. Saints, I have rebuilt 
Your shrines, set up your broken Images ; 
Be comfortable to me. SufTer not 
That my brief reign in England be defamed 
Thro' all her angry chronicles hereafter 
By loss of Calais. Grant me Calais. Philip, 
We have made war upon the Holy Father 
All for your sake : what good could come of that? 

Lady Clarence. No, Madam, not against the Holy 
Father ; 
Yon did but help King Philip's war with France. 
Your troops were never down iu Italy. 

Mary. I am a byword. Heretic and rebel 
Point at me and make merry. Philip gone ! 
And Calais gone ! Time that 1 were gone too ! 

Lady Clarence.. Nay, if the feiid gutter had a voice 
And cried I was not clean, what should I care ? 
Or you, for heretic cries ? And I believe. 
Spite of your melancholy Sir Nicholas, 
Your England is as loyal as myself. 

Mary {seeing theixiper dropt by Pole). There, there ! 
another paper! Said yon not 
Many of these were loyal 1 Shall I try 
If this be one of such ? 

Lady Clarence. Let it be, let it be. 

God pardon me ! I have never yet found one. [Aside. 

Mary {reads). "Your people hate you as your hus- 
band hates you." 
Clarence, Clarence, what have I done? what sin 
Beyond all grace, all pardon ? Mother of God, 
Thou knowest never woman meant so well 
And fared so ill iu this disastrous world. 
My people hate me and desire my death. 

Lady Clarence. No, Madam, no. 

Mary. My husband hates me and desires my death. 

Lady Clarence. No, Madam ; these are libels. 

Mary. I hate myself, and I desire my death. 

Lady Clarence. Long live yourMajesty ! Shall Alice 
Fiug you 
One of her i)leasant songs ? Alice, my child. 
Bring ns your lute (Alice goes). They say the gloom 

of Saul 
Was lighten'd by young David's harp. 

Mary. Too young ! 

And never knew a Philip {re-enter Alice). Give me 

the lute. 
He hates me ! 

{She sings.) 

Hapless doom of woman happy in betrotliinj;! 

Beauty passes like a breath, and love is lost in loathing : 

Low, my lute ; speak low, my lute, but say the world is nothing- 
Low, lute, low ! 

Love will hover round the flowers when they first awaken ; 

Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be overtaken ; 

Low, my lute ! oh low, my lute ! we fade, and are forsaken — 
Low, dear lute, low ! 

Take it away ! not low enough for me ! 

Alice. Your Grace hath a low voice. 

Mary. How dare you say it? 

Even for that he hates me. A low voice 
Lost in a wilderness where none can hear ! 
A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless sea ! 
20 



A low voice from the dust and from the grave {sitting 

on the ground). 
There, am I low enough new ? 
Alice. Good Lordl how grim and ghastly looks her 

Grace, 
With both her knees drawn upward to her chin. 
There was an old-world tomb beside my father's, 
And this was open'd, and the dead were found 
Sitting, and iu this fashion ; she looks a corpse. 

Enter Lady Magdalen Dackes. 

Lady Magdalen. Madam, the Count de Feria waits 
without, 
In hopes to see your Highness. 

Lady Clarence {pointing to Mary). Wait he must — 
Her trance again. She neither sees nor hears, 
And may not speak for hours. 

Lady Magdalen. Unhappiest 

Of queens and wives and women. 

Alice {in the foreground with Lady Magdalen). And 
all along 
Of Philip. 

Lady Magdalen. Not so loud 1 Our Clarence there 
Sees ever such an aureole round the Queen. 
It gilds the greatest wronger of her peace, 
Who stands the nearest to her. 

A lice. Ay, this Philip : 

I used to love the Queen with all my heart — 
God help me, but methinks I love her less 
For such a dotage u])on such a man. 
I would I were as tall and strong as you. 

Lady Magdalen. I seem half-shamed at times to be 
so tall. 

Alice. You are the stateliest deer iu all the herd- 
Beyond his aim ; but I am small and scandalous, 
And love to hear bad tales of Philip. 

Lady Magdalen. Why ? 

I never heard him utter worse of you 
Than that you were low-statured. 

Alice. Does he think 

Low stature is low nature, or all women's 
Low as his own ? 

Lady Magdalen. There you strike in the nail. 
This coarseness is a want of phantasy. 
It is the low man thinks the woman low ; 
Sin is too dull to see beyond himself. 

Alice. Ah, Magdalen, sin is bold as ■(tell as dulL 
How dared he ? 

Lady Magdalen. Stupid soldiers oft are bold. 
Poor lads, they see not what the general sees, 
A risk of utter ruin. I am not 
Beyond his aim, or was not. 

Alice. Who? Not you? 

Tell, tell me : save my credit with myself. 

Lady Magdalen. I never breathed it to a bird in tha 
eaves, 
Would not for all the stars and maiden moon 
Our drooping Queen should know I In Hampton Court 
My window look'd upon the corridor; 
And I was robing;— this poor throat of mine, 
Barer than I should wish a man to see it— 
When he we speak of drove the window back, 
And, like a thief, push'd in his royal hand; 
But by God's providence a good stout staflF 
Lay near me ; and you know me strong of arm ; 
I do believe I lamed his Majesty's 
For a day or two, tho', give the Devil his due, 
I never found he bore me any spite. 

A lice. I would she could have wedded that pooryouth, 
My Lord of Devon — light enough, God knows, 
And mixt with Wyatt's rising, and the boy 
Not out of him ; but neither cold, coarse, cruel. 
And, more than all, no Spaniard. 

Lady Clarence. Not so loud. 

Lord Devon, girls ! what are you whispering here ? 

Alice. Probing an old state-secret — how it chanced 
That this young Earl was sent on foreign travel, 
Not lost his head. 



304 



QUEEN MARY. 



Lady Clarence. There was uo proof against him. 
Alice. Nay, Madam, did not Gardiner intercept 
A letter which the Count de Noailles wrote 
To that dead traitor, Wyatt, with full proof 
or Courteuay 's treason ? What became of that ? 
Lady Clarence. Some say that Gardiner, out of love 
for him, 
Burnt it, and some relate that it was lost 
When VVyatt sack'd the Chancellor's house in South- 

wark. 
Let dead things rest. 

Alice. Ay, and with him who died 

Alone in Italy. 

Lady Clarence. Much changed, I hear. 
Had put off levity and put graveness on. 
The foreign courts report him in his manner 
Noble as his young person and old shield. 
It might be so— but all is over now ; 
He caught a chill in the lagoons of Venice, 
And died in Padua. 
Mary (looking up suddenly). Died iu the true faith? 
Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam, happily. 
Mary. Happier he than I. 

Lady Magdalen. It seems her Highness hath awak- 
en'd. Think you 
That I might dare to tell her that the Count— 
Mary. I will see no man hence for evermore, 
Saving my confessor and my cousin Pole. 
Lady Magdalen. It is the Count de Feria, my dear 

lady. 
Mary. What Conn tf 

Lady Magdalen. The Count de Feria, from his Maj- 
esty, 
King Philip. 

Mary. Philip ! quick ! loop up my hair ! 

Throw cushions on that seat, and make it throne- 
like. 
Arrange my dress— the gorgeous Indian shawl 
That Philip brought me in our happy days I— 
That covers all. So— am I somewhat queenlike, 
Bride of the mightiest sovereign upon earth ? 
Lady Clarence. Ay, so your Grace would bide a 

moment yet. 
Mary. No, no, he brings a letter. I may die 
Before I read it. Let me see him at once. 

Enter Count de Fekia {kneels). 

Feria. I trust your Grace is well. (Aside.) How her 
hand burns! 

Mary. I am not well, but it will better me. 
Sir Count, to read the letter which you bring. 

Feria. Madam, I bring uo letter. 

Mary. How ! no letter ? 

Feria. His Highness is so vex'd with strange affairs — 

Mary. That his own wife is no affair of his. 

Feria. Nay, Madam, nay I he sends his veriest love. 
And says he will come quickly. 

Mary. Doth he, indeed? 

You, sir, do you remember what you said 
When last you came to England ? 

Feria. Madam, I brought 

My King's congratulations ; it was hoped 
Your Highness was once more in happy state 
To give him an heir male. 

Afary. Sir, you said more ; 

You said he would come quickly. I had horses 
On all the road from Dover, day and night; 
On all the road from Harwich, night and day ; 
But the child came not, and the husband came not; 
And yet he will come quickly. Thou hast learnt 
Thy lesson, and I mine. There is no need 
For Philip so to shame himself again. 
Return, 

And tell him that I know he comes no more. 
Tell him at last I know his love is dead. 
And that I am in state to bring forth dead— 
Thou art commissiou'd to Elizabeth, 
And not to me I 



Feria. Mere compliments and wishes. 

But shall I take some message from your Grace? 

Mary. Tell her to come and close my dying eyes, 
And wear my crown, and dance upon my grave. 

Feria. Then I may say your Grace will see your sis- 
ter? 
Your Grace is too low-spirited. Air and sunshine. 
I would we had you, Madam, in our warm Spaiu. 
You droop in your dim Loudon. 

Mary. Have him away ; 

I sicken of his readiness. 

Lady Clarence. My Lord Count, 

Her Highness is too ill for colloquy. 

Feria (kneels and kisses her hand). I wish her High- 
ness better. {Aside.) How her hand burns 1 

[Exe2int. 



SCENE III.— A HOUSE NEAR LONDON. 

Elizabetu, Steward of the Household, Attend- 
ants. 
Elizabeth. There's half an angel wrong'd in your 
account; 
Methinks I am all angel, that I bear it 
Without more ruffling. Cast it o'er again. 
Steward. 1 were whole devil if I wrong'd you. Mad- 
am. 

[Exit Steward. 
Attendant. The Count de Feria, from the King of 

Spain. 
Elizabeth. Ah !— let him enter. Nay, you need not 
go: [To her Ladizb. 

Remain within the chamber, but apart. 
We'll have uo private conference. Welcome to En- 
gland ! 

Enter Feuia. 

Feria. Fair island star. 

Elizabeth. I shine ! What else. Sir Count 7 

Feria. As far as France, and into Philip's heart. 
My King would know if you be fairly served, 
And lodged, and treated. 

Elizabeth. You see the lodging, sir, 

I am well-served, and am iu everything 
Most loyal and most grateful to the Queen. 

Feria. You should be grateful to my master, too; 
He spoke of this: and unto him you owe 
That Mary hath acknowledged you her heir. 

Elizabeth. No, not to her, nor him; but to the peo- 
ple. 
Who know my right, and love me, as I love 
The jjeople I whom God aid ! 

Feria. You will be Queen, 

And, were I Philip — 

Elizabeth. Wherefore ^ause you— what? 

Feria. Nay, but I speak from mine own self, not 
him: 
Your royal sister cannot last ; your hand 
Will be much coveted ! What a delicate one ! 
Our Sjjanish ladies have none such— and there. 
Were you in Spain, this fine fair gossamei- gold- 
Like sun-gilt breathings on a frosty dawn- 
That hovers round your shoulder— 

Elizabeth. Is it so fine? 

Troth, some have said so. 

Feria. —would be deemed a miracle. 

Elizabeth. Your Philip hath gold hair and golden 
beard, 
There must be ladies many with hair like mine. 

Feria. Some few of Gothic blood have golden hair, 
But none like yours. 

Elizabeth. I am happy you approve it. 

Feria. But as to Philip and your Graci', consider, 
If such a one as you should match with Spain, 
What hinders but that Spain and England joln'd 
Should make the mightiest empire earth has known. 
Spain would be England on her seas, and England 
Mistress of the Indies. 



QUEEN MARY. 



305 



Elizabeth. It may chance that England 

Will be the Mistress of the ladies yet, 
Without the help of Spain. 

Feria. Impossible ; 

Except you i)ut Spain down. 
Wide of the mark ev'u for a madman's dream. 

Elizabeth. Perhaps; but wc have seameu. Count 
de Feria, 
I take it that the Kinu; hath spoken to you ; 
But is Don Carlos such a goodly match ? 

Feria. Don Carlos, Madam, is but twelve years old. 

Elizabeth. Ay, tell the King that I will muse upon it ; 
He is my good friend, and I would keep him so ; 
But— he would have me Catholic of Kome, 
And that I scarce cap be ; and, sir, till now 
My sister's marriage, and my father's marriages, 
Make me full fain to live and die a maid. 
But I am much beholden to your King. 
Have you aught else to tell me ? 

Feria. Nothing, Madam, 

Save that methought T gather'd from the Queen 
That she would see your Grace before she— died. 

Elizabeth. God's death! and wherefore spake you 
not before? 
We dally with our lazy moments here. 
And hers are number'd. Horses there, without ! 
I am much beholden to the King, your master. 
Why did you keip me prating? Horses, there ! 

[Exit E:.izA!3ETu, etc. 

Feria. So from a clear sky falls the thuuderholt ! 
Don Carlos ? Madam, if you marry Philip, 
Then I and he will snaffle your " God's death," 
And break your paces in, and make you tame ; 
God's death, forsooth— yon do not kuow King Philip. 

[Exit. 



SCENE IV. —LONDON. BEFORE THE 
PALACE. 

A light burning within. Voices of the night passing. 

First. Is not yon light in the Queen's chamber ? 
Second. Ay, 

They say she's dying. 

First. So is Cardinal Pole. 

May the great angels join their wings, ai;d make 
Down for their heads to heaven ! 
Second. Auieu. Come on. 

[Exezmt. 
Two Otueks. 

First. There's the Queen's light. I hear she cannot 
live. 

Second. God curse her and her Legate ! Gardiner 
burns 
Already; but to pay them full in kind, 
The hottest hold in all the devil's den 
Were but a sort of winter : sir, in Guernsey, 
I watch'd a woman burn ; and in her agony 
The mother came upon her— a child was born — 
And, sir, they hurl'd it back into the fire, 
That, being but baptized in Are, the babe 
Might be in tire forever. Ah, good neighbor, 
There should be something fierier than fire 
To yield them their deserts. 

First. Amen to all 

f ou wish, and further. 

A Third Voice. Deserts! Amen to what? Whose 
deserts? Yours? You have a gold ring on your fin- 
ger, and soft raiment about your body ; and is not the 
woman up yonder sleeping, after all she has done, in 
peace and quietness, on a soft bed, in a closed room, 
with light, fire, physic, tendance ; and I have seeu the 
true men of Christ lying famine-dead by scores, and 
under no ceiling but the cloud that wept on them, not 
for them. 

First. Friend, tho' so late, it is not safe to preach. 
You had best go home. What are you ? 



Third. What am I? One who cries continually with 
sweat and tears to the Lord God that it would please 
Him out of His infiuite love to break down all king- 
ship and queenship, all priesthood and prelacy; to 
cancel and abolish all bonds of human allegiance, aJl 
the magistracy, all the nobles, and all the wealthy: 
and to send us again, according to his promise, the 
one King, the Christ, and all things in common, as in 
the day of the first church, when Christ Jesus was 
King. 

First. If ever I heard a madman — let's away ! 

Why, you long-winded Sir, you go beyond me. 

I pride myself on being moderate. 

Good-night! Go home. Besides, you curse so loud, 

The watch will hear you. Get you home at once. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE v.— LONDON. A ROOM IN THE 
PALACE. 

A gallery on one side. The moonlight streaming 
th rough a range of uindoivs on the ivall opposite. 
Maky, Lady Clarenob, Lady Maqdalkn Dacues, 
Ai-iOB. Qdeen pacing the gallery. A writing-ta- 
ble in front. Queen comes to the table and ivrites, 
and gees again, pacing the gallery. 

Lady Clarence. Mine eyes are dim: what hath she 
written ? Read. 

Alice. "I am dying, Philip; come to mc." 

Lady Magdalen. There — up and down, poor lady, up 
and down. 

A lice. And how her shadow crosses one by one 
The moonlight casements pattern'd on the wall, 
Following her like her sorrow. She turns again. 

[Queen sits and ivrites, and goes again. 

Lady Clarence. What hath she written now ? 

Alice. Nothing; but "come, come, come," and all 
awry. 
And blotted by her tears. This cannot last. 

[QuEEH returns. 

Mary. I whistle to the bird has broken cage. 
And all in vain. [Sitting doion. 

Calais gone— Guisnes gone, too— and Philip gone. 

Lady Clarence. Dear Madam, Philip is but at the 
wars ; 
I cannot doubt but that he comes again ; 
And he is with you in a measure still. 
I never look'd upon so fair a likeness 
As your great King in armor there, his hand 
Upon his helmet. 

[Pointing to the portrait o/Pnii.ir on the loall. 

Mary. Doth he not look noble? 

I had heard of him in battle over seas. 
And I would have my warrior all in arms. 
He said it was not courtly to stand helmeted 
Before the Queen. He had his gracious moment, 
Altbo' you'll not believe me. How he smiles, 
As if he loved me yet ! 

Lady Clarence. And so he does. 

Mary. He never loved me— nay, he could not love 
me. 
It was his father's policy against France. 
I am eleven years older than he. 
Poor boy. [Weeps, 

Alice. That wasalustyboyof twenty-scv'en ; [Aside. 
Poor enough in God's grace ! 

Mary. —And all in vain ! 

The Queen of Scots is married to the Dauphin, 
And Charles, the lord of this low world, is gone ; 
And all his wars and wisdoms past away; 
And in a moment I shall follow him. 

Lady Clarence. Nay, dearest Lady, see your good 
physician. 

Mary. Drugs— but he knows they cannot help me— 
says 
That rest is all— tells me I must not think — 



30G 



QUEEN MARY. 



That I must rest— I shall rest by-aud-by. 
Catch the wild cat, caj^e him, aud when he springs 
And maims himself against the bars, say "Rest:" 
■\Vhy, you must kill hira if you would have hiui rest — 
Dead or alive, you cannot make him happy. 

Lady Clarence. Your Majesty has lived so pure a 
life, 
And done such mighty things by Holy Church, 
I trust that God will make you happy yet. 

Mary. What is the strange thing happiness? Sit 
down here ; 
Tell me thine happiest hour. 

Lady Clarence. I will, if that 

May make your Grace forget yourself a little. 
There runs a shallow brook across our field 
For twenty miles, where the black crow flies five, 
Aud doth so bound aud babble all the way 
As if itself were happy. It was May-time, 
And I was walking with the man I loved. 
I loved him, but I thought I was not loved. 
A'Jd both were silent, letting the wild brook 
Speak for us— till he stoop'd and galher'd one 
From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots, 
Look'd hard and sweet at me, aud gave it me. 
I took it, tho' I did not know I took it, 
Aud put it in my bosom, and all at once 
I felt his arms about mt, aud his lips — 

Mary. O God ! I have been too slack, too slack ; 
There are Hot Gospellers even among our guards- 
Nobles we dared not touch. We have but burnt 
The heretic priest, workmen, aud women aud chil- 
dren. 
Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck, wrath— 
We have so play'd the coward ; but, by God's grace, 
We'll follow Philip's leading, aud set up 
The Holy Office here — garner the wheat, 
Aud burn the tares with uuquenchable fire ! 
Burn !— 

Fie, what a savor ! Tell the cooks to close 
The doors of all the offices below. 
Latimer! 

Sir, we are private with our women here— 
Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fellow — 
Thou light a torch that never will go out! 
'Tis out— mine flames. Women, the Holy Father 
Has ta'en the legateship from our cousin Pole — 
Was that well done ? and poor Pole pines of it, 
As I do, to the death. I am but a woman, 
I have no power. Ah, weak and meek old man, 
Seven-fold dishonor'd even in the sight 
Of thine own sectaries— No, no. No pardon I— 
Why, that was false : there is the right hand s'.ill 
Beckons me hence. 

Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for treason, 
Remember that ! 'Twas I and Bonner did it. 
And Pole; we are three to one. Have you found 

mercy there, 
Grant it me here ; and see he smiles and goes. 
Gentle as in life. 

Alice. Madam, who goes ? King Philip ? 

Mary. No, Philip comes and goes, but never goes. 
Women, when I am dead, 
Open my heart, and there you will find written 
Two names, Philip and Calais ; open his— 
So that he have one- 
Yon will find Pliilip only, i)olicy, polic}' — 
Ay> worse than that — not one hour true to me ! 
Foul maggots crawling in a fester'd vice I 
Adulterous to the very heart of hell. 
Hast thou a knife? 

Alice. Ay, Madam, but o' God's mercy — 

Mary. Fool, think'st thou I would peril mine o\.'n 
soul 
By slaughter of the body ? I could not, girl. 
Not this way — callous with a constant stripe, 
Uuwouudable. Thy knife ! 

Alice. Take heed, t»ke heed ! 

The blade is keen as death. 



Mary. This Philip shall not 

Stare in upon me in my haggarduess ; 
Old, miserable, diseased. 
Incapable of children. Come thou down. 

ICuts out the picture and throws it down. 
Lie there. (Wails.) O God, I have kill'd my Philip. 

A lice. No, 

Madam, yon have but cut the canvas out ; 
We can replace it. 

Mary. All is well then ; rest — 

I will to rest ; he said I must have rest. 

[Cries of " Elizaiseth " in the strc4;t. 
A cry 1 What's that ? Elizabeth ? revolt ? 
A new Northumberland, another Wyatt? 
I'll fight it on the threshold of the grave. 

Lady Clarence. Madam, your royal sister comes to 
see yon. 

Mary. I will not see her. 
Who knows if Boleyu's daughter be my sister? 
I will see none except the priest. Your arm. 

[To Lady Clarence. 

Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn smile 
Among thy patient wrinkles, help me hence. 

[Exeunt. 

The Peiest passes. Enter Ei.izaisetu and Sia Wil- 
liam Cecil. 

Elizabeth. Good counsel yours — 

No one in waiting? Still, 
As if the chamberlain were Death himself! 
The room she sleeps in — is not this the way? 
No, that way there are voices. Am I too late ? 
Cecil. . . .God guide me lest I lose the way. 

[Exit El.IZAliETII. 

Cecil. Many points weather'd, many perilous ones, 
At last a harbor opens ; but therein 
Sunk rocks — they need fine steering — mucli it is 
To be nor mad, nor bigot— have a mind- 
Not let priests' talk, or dream of worlds to be, 
Miscolor things about her — sudden touches 
For him, or him— sunk rocks ; no passionate faith— 
But — if let be— balance aud comjiroinise ; 
Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her — a Tudor 
School'd by the shadow of death — a Boleyn, too, 
Glancing across the Tudor— not so well. 

Enter Alice. 

How is the good Queen now? 

A lice. Away from Philip, 

Back in her childhood — prattling to her mother 
Of her betrothal to the Emperor Charles, 
And childlike-jealous of him again — and once 
She thank'd her father sweetly for his book 
Against that godless German. Ah, those days 
Were happy. It was never merry world 
In England, since the Bible came among us. 

Cecil. Aud who says that ? 

Alice. It is a saying among the Catholics. 

Cecil. It never will be merry world in England, 
Till all men have their Bible, rich and poor. 

Alice. The Queen is dying, or you dare not say it. 

Etiter Elizabeth. 

Elizabeth. The Queen is dead. 

Cecil. Then here she stands ! My homage. 

Elizabeth. She knew me, and acknowledged me her 
heir, 
Pray'd me to pay her debts, and keep the Faith ; 
Then claspt the cross, and pass'd away in peace. 

1 left her lying still and beautiful. 

More beautiful than in life. Why would you vex your- 
self. 
Poor sister ? Sir, I swear I have no heart 
To be your Queen. To reign is restless fence. 
Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is witii the 

dead. 
Her life was winter, for her spring was nipt: 
Aud she loved much : pray God she be forgiven. 



QUEEN MARY. 



307 



Cecil. Peace with the dead, who uever were at 
peace ! 
Yet she loved cue so much— I needs must say- 
That never English monarch dying lel't 
England so little. 

Elizabeth. But with Cecil's aid 

And others, if our person be secured 
From traitor stabs, we will make England great. 



Enter Pagkt, aiid other Lonns op the Council, Sib 
Kah'u Bageniiai.l, etc. 

Lords. God save Elizabeth, the Queen of England ! 
Bagenhall, God save the Crown : the Papacy is no 

more. 
Paget (aside). Are we so sure of that? 
Acclamation. God save tbe Qucea '. 




TO HIS EXCELLENCY 

THE RIGHT HON. LORD LYTTON, 

VICEROY AND GOVERNOR-GENERAL OF INDIA. 



My dear Lord LijUon, — After old-world records — sucJi as the Baycux tapestry and the lioman 
de Sou — Edward Freeman'' s History of the Norman Conquest, and your father'' s Historical lio- 
mance treating of the same times, have been mainly helpful to me in loriting this Drama. Your 
father dedicated his '■^HaroUV to my father's brother; allow me to dedicate my "Hai'old^^ to 
yourself. 

A. TENNYSON. 



SHOW-DAY AT BATTLE ABBEY, 1876. 



A GARDEN here— May breath and bloom of spriug — 

The cuckoo yonder from an English elm 

Crying "v/ith my false egg I overwhelm 

The native nest: "and fancy hears the ring 

Of harness, and that deathful arrow sing, 

And Saxon battleraxe clang on Norman helm. 

llere rose the dragon-banner of our realm: 



Here fought, here fell, onr Norman-slauder'd king. 

O Garden blossoming out of English blood ! 

O strange hate-healer Time ! We stroll and stare 

Where might made right eight hundred years ago; 

Might, right? ay good, so all things make for good- 

But he and he, if soul be soul, are where 

Each stands full face with all he did below. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

King Edward tiif. Confessor. 

Stigand (created Archbishop of Canterbury by the Antipope Benedict). 

Ai.DRKD (Archbishop of York). 

The Norman Bishop of London. 

IIaboi.d, Earl of Wessex, afterwards King of England,^ 

T08T10, Earl of Northumbria, 

GnKTH, Earl of East Anglia, j-Sons of Godwin. 

Leofwin, Earl of Kent and Essex, 

WULFNOTII, 

CorNT William of Normandy. 

William Rufus. 

William ISIalet (a Norman Noble).* 

Edwin, Earl of Mercia, ) „ . .,„ , ,, 

,, „,.„.,'. , _ ,. }■ Sous of Alfgar of Mercia. 

Moroar, Earl of Northumbria afier Tostig,) 

Gamel (a Northumbrian Thane). 

Guy (Count of Pontliicu). 

Rolf (a Ponthicu Fisherman). 

Hugh Marcjot (a Normau Monk). 

OsGOi) and Atiiklrio (Canons from Waltham). 

The Queen (Edward the Confessor's Wife, Daughter of Godwin). 

A1.DWYT11 (Daughter of Alfgar aud Widow of Griffyth, King of Wales). 

Edith (Ward of King Edward). 

Courtiers, Earls and Thaues, Men-at-Arms, Canons of WalthLin, Fishermen, eto 

* quirlam partim Normnnnus et Anplns 

Compater Meraldi. (Guy of Amiena, 687.) 



HAROLD. 



309 



HAROLD. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I.— LONDON. THE KING'S 
PALACE. 

(.4 cornel seen thmtgh the open window.) 

Aldwytii, Gamel, Courtiekb talking together. 

First Courtier. Lo ! there ouce more— this is the 
seventh night ! 
You grimly-ghu-iug, treble-brandish'd scourge 
OfEughind! 
Second Courtier. Horrible ! 

First Courtier. Look you, there's a stiir 

That dances iu it as mad with agony 1 
Third Courtier. Ay, like a spirit iu hell who skips 
and ilies 
To right aud left, and cannot scape the flame. 
Second Courtier. Steam'd upward from the unde- 
Ecendable 
Abysm. 
First Courtier. Or floated downward from the 
throne 
Of God Almighty. 

Aldu-ijth. Gamel, son of Orm, 

What thinkest thou Ihis means ? 
Gamel. War, my dear lady 1 

Aldwyth. Doth this affright thee ? 
Gamel. Miglitily, my dear lady ! 

Aldwyth. Stand by me theu, and look upon my 
face. 
Not on the comet. 

Enter Mouoar. 

Brother, why so pale? 
Morcar. It glares iu heaveu, it flares upon the 
Thames, 
The people are as thick as bees below, 
They hum like bees, — they cannot speak— for awe ; 
Look to the skies, then to the river, strike 
Their hearts, and hold their babies up to it. 
I think that they would Molochize them too, 
To have the heaveus clear. 
Aldwyth. They fright not me. 

(Enter Leofwin, txfter him Gurtii.) 
Ask thon Lord Leofwin what he thiuks of this ! 

Morcar. Lord Leofwin, dost thou believe that these 
Three rods of blood-red fire up yonder mean 
The doom of England and the wrath of Heaveu? 
Bishop of Lomlon (passing). Did ye not cast with 
bestial violence 
Our holy Norman bishops down from all 
Their thrones in England ? I alone remain. 
Why should not Heaveu be wroth? 
Leofwin. With us, or thee? 

Bishop of London. Did ye not outlaw your arch- 
bishop Robert, 
Robert of Jumieges — well-nigh murder him too ? 
Is there uo reason for the wrath of Heaven ? 
Leofwin. Why then the wrath of Heaven hath three 
tails, 
The devil only one. IKxit Bisnop of Londox. 

(Enter Auoiibisuop Stioand.) 

Ask our Archbishop. 
Stigaud should kuow the purposes of Heaven. 



Stigand. Not I. I cannot read the fiice of heaven. 
Perhaps our vines will grow the better for it. 

Leofwin (laughing). He can but read the King's 
face on his coins. 

Stigand. Ay, ay, young lord, the7-e the King's face is 
power. 

Gurth. O father, mock not at a public fear, 
But tell us, is this pendent hell iu heaven 
A harm to England? 

Stigand. Ask it of King Edward ! 

Aud he may tell thee, / am a harm to England. 
Old uncanonical Stigand — ask of me 
Who had my pallinm from an Antipope ! 
Not he the man — for in our windy world 
What's up is faith, what's down is heresy. 
Our friends, the Normans, holp to shake his chair. 
I have a Normau fever on me, son, 

Aud cauuot answer sanely What it means? 

Ask our broad Earl. [Pointing to Hauold, who enters. 

Harold (seeing Gamel). Hail, Gamel, sou of Orm ! 
Albeit no rolling stone, my good friend Gamel, 
Thou hast rounded since we met. Thy life at home 
Is easier than mine here. Look ! am I not 
Work-wan, flesh-falleu ? 

Gamel. Art thou sick, good Earl ? 

Harold. Sick as an autumn swallow for a voyage. 
Sick for an idle week of hawk and hound 
Beyond the seas — a change! When earnest thon 
hither? 

Gamel. To-daj', good Earl. 

Harold. Is the North quiet, Gnmel ? 

Gamel. Nay, there be murmurs, for thy brother 
breaks us 
With over-taxing — quiet, ay, as yet — 
Nothing as yet. 

Harold. Stand hy him, mine old friend, 

Thou art a great voice in Northumberland! 
Advise him : speak him sweetly, he will hear thee. 
He is passionate, but honest. Stand thou by him ! 
More talk of this to-morrow, if yon weird sign 
Not blast us in our dreams.^Well, father Stigand— 
[To Stigand, wAo advances to him. 

Stigand (pointing to the comet). War there, my son ? 
Is that the doom of England? 

Harold. Why not the doom of all the world as 
well ? 
For all the world sees it as well as England. 
These meteors came and went before. our day, 
Not harming any: it threatens us no more 
Thau French or Norman. War? the worst that fol- 
lows 
Things that seem jerk'd ont of the common rut 
Of Nature is the hot religious fool. 
Who, seeing war iu heaven, for heaven's credit 
Makes it on earth : but look, where Edward draws 
A faint foot hither, leaning upon Tostig. 
He hath learnt to love our Tostig much of late. 

Leofwin. And he hath learnt, despite the tiger iu 
him. 
To sleek and supple himself to the King's hand. 

Gurth. I trust the kingly touch that cures the evil 
May serve to charm the tiger out of him. 

Leofwin. He hath as much of cat as tiger in him. 
Our Tostig loves the hand, and uot the man. 

Harold. Nay ! Better die than lie ! 



310 



HAROLD. 



Enter Kino, Queen and Tostio. 

Edward. In heaven signs ! 

Signs upon earth ! signs everywhere ! your Priests 
Gross, worldly, siraouiacal, unlearii'd ! 
They scarce can read their Psalter : and your churches 
Uncouth, unhandsome, while in Norinanland 
God speaks thro' abler voices, as He dwells 
In statelier shrines. I say not this as being 
Half Normau-blooded, uor, as some have held. 
Because I love the Normau better — no, 
But dreading God's revenge upon this realm 
For narrowness and coldness ; and I say it 
For the last time perchance, before I go 
To find the sweet refreshment of the Saints. 
I have lived a life of utter purity: 
I have builded the great church of Holy Peter: 
I have wrought miracles— to God the glory— 
And miracles will in my name be Avrought 

Hereafter I have fought the fight and go— 

I see the flashing of the gates of pearl— 
And it is well with me, tho' some of you 
Have scoru'd me— ay— but after I am gone 
Woe, woe to England ! I have had a vision ; 
The seven sleepers in the cave at Ephesus 
Have tnrn'd from right to left. 

Harold. My most dear Master, 

AVhat matters? Let them turn from left to right 
And sleep agaiu. 

Tostig. Too hardy with thy King ! 

A life of prayer and fasting well may see 
Deeper into the mysteries of heaveu 
Than thou, good brother. 

Aldwiith (aside). Sees he into thine, 

That thou wouldst have his promise for the crown ? 

Edward. Tostig says true : ray son, thou art too 
hard, 
Not stagger'd by this ominous earth and heaveu : 
But heaveu and earth are threads of the same loom, 
Play iuto one another, and weave the web 
That may confound thee yet. 

Harold. Nay, I trust not. 

For I have served thee long aud honestly. 

Edward. I know it, sou ; I am not thankless: thou 
Hast broken all my foes, lighten'd for me 
The weight of this poor crown, aud left me time 
And peace for prayer to gaiu a better one. 
Twelve years of service ! England loves thee for it. 
Thou art the man to rule her ! 

Aldwyth {aside). So, not Tostig I 

Harold. And after those twelve years a boon, my 
King, 
Respite, a holiday: thyself wast wont 
To love the chase : thy leave to set my feet 
On board, aud hunt aud hawk beyond the seas ! 

Edward. What, with this flaming horror overhead? 

Harold. Well, wheu it passes then. 

Edward. Ay, if it pass. 

Go not to Normandy — go not to Normandy. 

Harold. And wherefore uot, my King, to Norman- 
dy? 
Is not my brother W'ulfuoth hgstage there 
For my dead father's loyalty to thee? 
I pray thee, let me hence and bring him home. 

Edward. Not thee, my son ; some other messen- 
ger. 

Harold. And why not me, my lord, to Normandy? 
Is not the Norman Count thy frieud and mine? 

Edward. I pray thee, do not go to Normandy. 

Harold. Because my father drove the Normans out 
Of England ?— That was many a summer gone- 
Forgotten and forgiven by them and thee. 

Edward. Harold, I will not yield thee leave to go. 

Harold. Why then to Flanders. I will hawk and 
hunt 
In Flanders. 

Edward. Be there not fair woods and fields 
In England? Wilful, wilful. Go— the Saints 



Pilot and prosper all thy wandering out 
Aud homeward. Tostig, I am faint agaiu. 
Sou Harold, I will in aud pray for thee. 

[Exit, leaning on Tostig, and followed by 
Stioa.ni>, MoiiOAE, aiul Courtiers. 
Harold. What lies upou the miud of oiu- good 
King, 
That he should harp this way on Normandy ? 

Queen. Brother, the King is wiser than he seems ; 
And 'i'ostig knows it; Tostig loves the King. 
Harold. And love should kuow ; aud, be the King 
so wise. 
Then Tostig too were wiser than he seems. 
I Iwve the man, but uot his phantasies. 

{Re-enter Tostig.) 

Well, brother, 

Wheu didst thou hear from thy Northumbria? 
l\>slig. Wheu did I hear anght but this "i\hcn" 
from thee? 
Leave me alone, brother, with my Northumbria: 
She is my mistress, let me look to her ! 
The King hath made me Earl ; make me not fool ! 
Nor make the King a fool, who made me Earl ! 
Harold. No, Tostig — lest I make myself a fool 
Who made the King who made thee, make thee 
Earl. 
Tostig. Why chafe me then ? Thou kuowest I soou 

go wild. 
Gitrth. Come, come ! as yet thou art uot gone so 
wild 
But thou canst hear the best and wisest of us. 
Harold. So says old Gurth, uot I: yet hear! thine 
earldom, 
Tostig, hath been a kingdom. Their old crown 
Is yet a force among them, a sun set 
But leaving light enough for Alfgar's house 
To strike thee down by — uay, this ghastly glare 
May heat their fancies. 

Tostig. My most worthy brother. 

That art the quietest man in all the world — 
Ay, ay, and wise in peace aud gieat in war- 
Pray God the people choose thee for their king I 
But all the powers of the house of Godwin 
Are not enframed in thee. 

Harold. Tliank the Saints, no I 

But thou hast drain'd them shallow by thy tolls, 
And thou art ever here about the King: 
Thine absence well may seem a want of care. 
Cling to their love ; for, now the sons of Godwin 
Sit topmost in the field of England, envy, 
Like the rough bear beneath the tree, good brother, 
Waits till the man let go. 

Tostig. Good counsel truly ! 

I heard from my Northumbria yesterday. 
Harold. How goes it then with thy Northumbria? 

Well ? 
Tostig. And wouldst thou that it went anght else 

than well? 
Harold. I would it went as well as with mine 
earldom, 
Leofwin's and Gurth's. 
Tostig. Ye govern milder men. 

Gurth. We liave made them milder by just govern- 
ment. 
Tostig. Ay, ever give yourselves your own good 

word. 
Leofwin. An honest gift, by all the Saiuts, if givei 
And taker be but honest ! but they bribe 
Each other, and so often, an honest world 
Will not believe them. 

Harold. I may tell thee, Tostig, 

I heard from thy Northumberland to-day. 

Tostig. From spies of thine to spy my nalcedness 
In my poor North I 

Harold. There is a movement there, 

A blind one— nothing yet. 
Tostig. Crush it at once 



HAROLD. 



311 



With all the power I have! — I must— I will! — 
Crush it half-born ! Fool still ? or wisdom there, 
My wise head-shakiug Harold? 

Harold. Make not thou 

The nothing something. Wisdom, when in power 
And wisest, should not frown as Power, but smile 
As kindness, watching all, till the true must 
Shall make her strike as Power : but when to 
strike — 

Tostig, O dear brother — if they prance. 
Rein in, not lash them, lest they rear and run 
And break both neck and axle. 

Tostig. . Good again ! 

Good counsel, the' scarce needed. Pour not water 
In the full vessel running out at top 
To swamp the house. 

Leo/win. Nor thou be a wild thiug 

Out of the waste, to turn and bite the hand 
Would help thee from the trap. 

Tostig. Thou pla.vest in tune. 

Lcoftnn. To the deaf adder thee, that wilt not 
dance, 
However wisely charm'd. 

Tostiff. No more, no more ! 

Gurth. I likewise cry " no more." Uuwholesorae 
talk 
For Godwin's house ! Leofwiu, thou hast a tongue! 
Tostig, thou lookst as thou wouldst spring upon him. 
Saint Olaf, not while I am by! Come, come, 
Joiu hands, let brethren dwell in unity; 
Let kith and kin stand close as our shield-wall, 
Who breaks us then ? I say thou hast a tongue, 
And Tostig is not stout enough to bear it. 
Vex him not, Leofwin. 

Tostig. No, I am not vext,— 

Allho' ye seek to vex me, one and all. 

1 have to make report of my good earldom 
To the good King who gave it— not to you — 
Not any of you. — I am not vext at all. 

Harold. The King? the King is ever at his pray- 
ers ; 
In all that handles matter of the State 
I am the King. 

Tostig. That shalt thou never be 

If I can thwart thee. 

Harold. Brotlier, brother ! 

TosHg. Aw.iy ! [Exit Tostio. 

Queen. Spite of this grisly star ye three must gall 
Poor Tostig. 

Leofwin. Tostig, sister, galls himself. 
He cannot smell a rose but pricks his nose 
Against the thorn, and rails against the rose. 

Queen. I am the only rose of all the stock 
That never thoru'd him ; Edward loves him, so 
Ye hate him. Harold always hated him. 
Why— how they fought when boys— and, Holy Mary ! 
How Harold used to beat him I 

Harold. Why, boys will fight. 

Leofwin would often tight me, and I beat him. 
Even old Gurlh would light, I had much ado 
To hold mine own against old Gurth. Old Gurth, 
We fought like great states for grave cause; but 

Tostig— 
On a sudden — at a something— for a nothing— 
The boy would fist me hard, and when we fought 
I conquer'd, and he loved me none the less. 
Till thiiU wouldst get him all apart, and tell him 
That where he was but worsted, he was wrong'd. 
Ah ! thou hast taught the King to spoil him too ; 
Now the spoilt child sways both. Take heed, take 

heed ; 
Thou art the Queen ; ye are boy and girl no more: 
Side not with Tostig in any violence, 
Lest thou be sideways guilty of the violence. 

Queen. Come, fall not foul on me. I leave thee, 
brother. 

Ilarold. Nay, my good sister — 

[Exeunt Qpf.en, Hauoi.i), QrKTii, and Leofwin. 



Aldwyth. GanieljSou of Orm, 

What thiukest thou this means? 

IPointing to the comet. 
GameL War, my dear lady, 

War, waste, plague, famine, all malignities. 
.1 Idiogth. It means the fall of Tostig from his earl- 
dom. 
Ganiel. That were too small a matter for a comet I 
Aldwyth. It means the lifting of the house of Alf- 

gar. 
Gamel. Too small ! a comet would not show for 

that! 
Ahhvyth. Not small for thee, if thou canst com- 
pass it. 
Gamel. Thy love? 

AUhvijth. As much as I can give thee, man ; 

This Tostig is, or like to be, a tyrant ; 
Stir up thy people: oust him! 

Gamel. And thy love? 

Aldwjith. As much as thou canst bear. 
Gamel. I cau bear all, 

And not be giddy. 
Aldwyth. No more now: to-morrow. 



SCENE II. —IN THE GARDEN. THE 
KING'S H0U8E NEAR LONDON. SUN- 
SET. 

Editu. 
Edith. Mad for thy mate, passionate nightin- 
gale.... 
I love thee for it — ay, but stay a moment ; 
He cau but stay a moment : he is going. 

I fain would hear him coming ! near me 

near, 
Somewhere— to draw him nearer with a charm 
Like thine to thine. 

{Singing.) 

Love is come with a song and a smile, 
Welcoiue Love with a smile and a song: 
Love can stay but a little while. 
Why cannot he stay? They call him away: 
Ye do him wrong, ye do him wrong ; 
Love will stay for a whole life-long. 

Enter Hakold. 

Harold. The nightingales at Havering-in-the-bower 
Sang out their loves so loud, that Edward's prayers 
Were deafen'd, and he pray'd them dimib, and thus 
I dumb thee too, my wingless nightingale ! 

[Kissing her. 

Edith. Thou art my music ! Would their wings 
were mine 
To follow thee to Flanders! Must thou go? 

Harold. Not must, but will. It is but for one 
moon. 

Edith. Leaving so many foes in Edward's hall 
To league against thy werd. The Lady Aldwyth 
Was here to-day, and when she touch'd on thee. 
She stammer'd in her hate ; I am sure she hates 

thee, 
Pants for thy blood. 

Harold. Well, I have given her cause— 

I fear no woman. 

Edith. Hate not one who felt 

Some pity for thy hater ! I am sure 
Her morning wanted sunlight, she so praised 
The convent and lone life — within the pale — 
Beyond the passion. Nay — she held with Edward, 
At least methought she held with hidy Edward, 
That marriage was half siu. 

Harold. A lesson worth 

Finger and thumb— thus {snaps his fingers). And 

my answer to it — 
See here — an interwoven H and E ! 
Take thou this ring ; I will demand his ward 



312 



HAROLD. 



From Edward when I come again. Ay, would slie? 
Slie to shut lip my blossom in the dark! 
Thou art mij nun, tliy cloister in mine arms. 

Ji'dith {taking the rin'j). Yea, but Earl Tostig— 

Harold. That's a truer fear ! 

For if the North take lire, I should be back; 
I shall be, soon enough. 

Edith. Ay, but last night 

An evil dream that ever came and went— 

Harold. A gnat that vext thy pillow ! Had I 
been by 
I would have spoil'd his horn. My giil, what was 
it? 

Edith. Oh that thou wert not going ! 
For so niethought it was our marriage-morn, 
And while we stood togethei', a dead man 
Rose from behind the altar, tore away 
My marriage-ring, and rent my bridal veil ; 
And then I turn'd, and saw the church all flll'd 
With dead men upright from their graves, and all 
The dead men made at thee to murder thee, 
But thou didst back thyself against a pillar, 
And strike among them with thy battle-axe- 
There, what a dream ! 

Harold. Well, well— a dream— no more I 

Edith. Did not Heaven speak to men in dreams 
of old •> 

Harold. Ay — well— of old. I tell ihec what, my 
child ; 
Thou hast misread this merry dream of thine. 
Taken the rifted pillars of the wood 
For smooth stone columns of the sanctuary, 
The shadows of a hundred fat dead deer 
For dead men's ghosts. True, that the battle-nxe 
Was out of place ; it should have been the bow. — 
Come, thou shalt dream uo more such dreams ; I 

swear it, 
By mine own eyes— and these two sapphires — these 
Twin rubies, that are amulets against all 
The kisses of all kind of womankind 
In Flanders, till the sea shall roll me back 
To tumble at thy feet. 

Edith. That would but shame me, 

Rather than make me vain. The sea may roll 
Sand, shingle, shoie-weed, not the living rock 
Which guards the laud. 

Harold. E.xcept it be a soft one, 

And undereaten to the fall. Mine amulet 

This last upon thine eyelids, to shut in 

A happier dream. Sleep, sleep, and thou shalt see 
?.Iy greyhounds fleeting like a beam of light, 
And hear my peregrine and her bolls in heaven ; 
And other bells on earth, which yet are heaven's; 
Guess what they be. 

Edith. He cannot guess who knows. 

Farewell, my king. 
Harold. Not yet, but then- my queen. [Exeunt. 

Enter Ai.nwYTii from the thicket. 
Aldwyth. The kiss that charms thine eyelids into 

sleep 
Will hold mine waking. Hate him? I could love 

him 
^lore, tenfold, than this fearful child can do ; 
Oriflyth I hated: why not hate the foo 
or England? Griffyth, when T saw him flee, 
rhased doer-like up his mountains, all the blood 
That should have only pulsed for Grifl'vth, beat 
For his pursuer. I love him or think I love him. 



If he were king of England, I his queeu, 
I might be sure of it. Nay, I do love him— 
She must be cloister'd somehow, lest the King 
Should yield his ward to Harold's will. What 

harm ? 
She hath but blood enough to live, not love. — 
When Harold goes and Tostig, shall I play 
The craftier Tostig with him? fawn upon him? 
Chime in with all ? " O thou more saint than king 1" 
And that were true enough. "O blessed relics!" 
" O Holy Peter I" If he found me thus, 
Harold might hate me ; he is broad and honest, 
Breathing an easy gladness. .. .not like Aldwyth..., 
For which I strangely love him. Should not En- 
gland 
Love Aldwyth, if she stay the feuds that part 
The sons of Godwin from the sons of Alfgar 
By such a marrying? Courage, noble Aldwyth! 
Let all thy people bless thee ! 

Our wild Tostig, 
Edward hath made him Earl: he would be king:— 
The dog that snapt the shadow, dropt the bone.— 
I trust he may do well, this Ganicl, whom 
I play upon, that he may play the note 
Whereat the dog shall howl and run, and Harold 
Hear the king's music, all alone with him. 
Pronounced his heir of England. 
I see the goal and half the way to it — 
Peace-lover is our Harold for the sake 
Of England's wholeness— so— to shake the North 
With earthquake and disruption- some division — 
Then fling mine own fair person in the gap 
A sacrifice to Harold, a peace-ofl'ering, 
A scape-goat marriage — all the sins of both 
The houses on mine head — then a fair life 
And bless the Queen of England. 

Morcar {coming from the thicket). Art thou assured 
By this, that Harold loves but Edith? 

Aldwijth. Morcar! 

Why creepst thou like a timorous beast of prey 
Out of the bush by night? 

Morcar. I follow'd thee. 

Aldwijth. Follow my lead, and I will make thee Earl. 

Morcar. What lead then? 

Aldwyth. Thou shalt flash it secretly 

Among the good Northumbrian folk, that I — 
That Harold loves me — yea, and presently 
That I and Harold are betroth'd- and last- 
Perchance that Harold wrongs me ; tho" I would not 
That it should come to that. 

Morcar. I will both flash 

And thunder for thee. 

Atdwijth. I said " secretly ; " 

It is the flash that murders, the poor thunder 
Never harm'd head. 

Morcar. But thunder may bring dowu 

That which the flash hath stricken. 

Aldiriith. Down with Tostig! 

That first of all.— .\nd wheu doth Harold go? 

Morcar. To-morrow— first to Bosham, then to Flan- 
ders. 

Aldwi/th. Not to come back till Tostig shall have 
shown 
And redden'd with his people's blood the teeth 
That shall be broken by us— j'ca, and thou 
Ohair'd in his place. Good-night, and dream thyself 
Their chosen Earl. [Exit Aldwyth. 

Morcar. Earl first, and after that 

Who knows I may not dream myself their kingl 



HAROLD. 



318 



ACT II. 



SCENE I. — SEASHORE. 
NIGHT. 



PONTHIEU. 



IIauold and his Men m-ecked. 

Harold. Prieuds, in that last iuhospitable plunge 
Our boat hath buvst hei- ribs; but ours are whole; 
I have but bark'd my bauds. 

Attendant. I dug mine into 

My old fast friend the shore, and clinging thus 
Felt the remorseless outdraught of the deep 
Haul like a great strong fellow at luy legs, 
And then I rose and ran. The blast that came 
So suddenly hath fallen as suddenly- 
Put thou the comet and this l)Iast together — 

Harold. Put thou thyself and mother-wit together. 
Be not a fool ! 

(Enter Fishermen loith torches, Harold (joinj up to 
one of them, Rolf.) 
Wicked sea-will-o'-the-wisp ! 
Wolf of the shore ! dog, with thy lying lights 
Thou hast betray'd us on these rocks of thine ! 

Eolf. Ay, but thou Most as loud as the black her- 
ring-pond behind thee. We be flshermeu ; 1 came to 
see after my nets. 

Harold. To drag us into them. Fishermen ? devils ! 
Who, while ye fish for men with yotu- false fires. 
Let the great Devil fish for your own souls. 

Itol.f. Nay then, we be liker the blessed Apostles; 
theij were fishers of men, Father Jean says. 

Haridd. I had liefer that the fish had swallowed me. 
Like Jonah, than have known there were such devils. 
What's to be done ? 

[To his Men — {iocs apart ivith them. 

Fisherman. Rolf, what fish did swallow Jonah ? 

Jttulf. A whale ! 

Fisherman. Then a whale to a whelk we have 
swallowed the King of England. I saw him over 
there. Look thee, Rolf, when I was down in the fe- 
ver, she was down with the hunger, and thou didst 
stand by her and give her thy crabs, and set her up 
again, till now, by the patient Saints, she's as crabb'd 
as ever. 

Rolf. And I'll give her ray crabs again, when thou 
art down again. 

Fisherman. I thank thee, Rolf. Run thou to Count 
Guy; he is hard at hand. Tell him what hath crept 
into our creel, and he will fee thee as freely as he will 
wrench this outlander's ransom out of him — and why 
not? for what right had he to get himself wrecked 
on another man's land? 

Rolf. Thou art the human -heartedest, Christian- 
charitiest of all crab -catchers ! Share and share 
alike ! [Exit. 

Harold (to Fisherman). Fellow, dost thou catch 
crabs ? 

Fisherman. As few as I may in a wind, and less 
than I would in a calm. Ay ! 

Harold. I have a mind that thou shalt catch no 
more. 

Fisherman. How? 

Harold. I have a mind to brain thee with mine axe. 

Fisherman. Ay, do, do, and our great Count-crab 
will make his nippers meet in thine heart; he'll 
sweat it out of thee, he'il sweat it out of thee. Look, 
he's here! He'll speak for himself! Hold thine 
own, if thou canst ! 



Enter Gnv, Coukt of PoiTninir. 

Harold. Guy, Count of Ponthien ! 

Guy. Harold, Earl of Wessex ! 

Harold. Thy villains with their lying lights have 
wreck'd us ! 

Gnij. Art thou not Earl of Wessex? 

Harold. In mine earUlotn 

A man may hang gold bracelets on a bush, 
And leave them for a year, and coming back 
Find them again. 

Gnij. Thou art a mighty man 

In thine own earldom ! 

Harold. Were snch murderous liars 

In Wessex — if I caught them, they should hang 
ClifT-gibbeted for sea-marks; our sea-mew 
Winging their only wail ! 

Gutj. Ay, but my men 

Hold that the shipwreckt are accursed of God; — 
What hinders me to hold with mine own men? 

Harold. The Christian manhood of the man who 
reigns ! 

Guy. Ay, rave thy worst, but in our oubliettes 
Thou shalt or rot or ransom. Hale him hence ! 

[To one of his Attendants. 
Fly thou to William ; tell him we have Harold. 



SCENE II.— BAYEUX. PALACE. 

Count Wili.tam and William Malet. 
William. We hold our Saxon woodcock in 
springe, 



the 



But he begins to flntter. As I think. 

He was thine host in England when I went 

To visit Edward. 

Malet. Yea, aud there, my lord, 

To make allowance for their rougher fashions, 
I found him all a noble host should be. 

William. Thou art his friend: thou know'st my 
claim on England 
Thro' Edward's promise: we have him in the toils. 
And it were well if thou shouldst let him feel 
How dense a fold of danger nets him round, 
So that he bristle himself against my will. 

Malet. What would I do, my lord, if I were yon? 

William. What wouldst thou do? 

Malet. My lord, he is thy guest. 

William. Nay, by the splendor of God, uo guest 
of mine. 
He came not to see me, had past me by 
To hunt and hawk elsewliere, save for the Tate 
Which hunted him when that un-Saxon blast, 
And bolts of thunder moulded in high heaven 
To serve the Norman purpose, drave and crack'd 
His boat on Ponthien beach ; where our friend Guy 
Had wrung his ransom from him by the rack. 
But that I slept between and purchased him. 
Translating his captivity from Guy 
To mine own hearth at Bayeux, where he sits 
My ransom'd prisoner. 

Malet. Well, if not with gold, 

With golden deeds and iron strokes that brought 
Thy war with Brittany to a goodlier close 
Than else had been, he paid his ransom back. 

William. So that henceforth they are not like to 
league 
With Harold against me. 



314 



HAROLD. 



Malet. A marvel, how 

He from the liquid sauds oi' Coesnoii 
Haled thy shore-swallow'd, ai-moi'd Normans up 
To light for thee again ! 

William. Perchauce against 

Their saver, save thou save him from himself. 

Malct. But I should let him home again, my lord. 

William. Simple ! let fly the bird witliin the hand. 
To catch the bird again within the bush ! 
No. 

Smooth thou my way, before he clash with me; 
I want his voice in England for the crown. 
I want thy voice with him to bring him round ; 
And being brave he must be subtly cow'd. 
And being truthful wrought upon to swear 
Vows that he dare not break. England our own 
Thro' Harold's help, he shall be my dear friend 
As well as thine, and thou thyself shalt have 
Large lordship there of lands and territory. 

]\ialet. I knew thy purpose ; he and Wulfnoth never 
Have met, except in public ; shall they meet 
In private? I have often talk'd with Wulfnoth, 
And stufled the boy with fears that these may act 
On Harold when they meet. 

William. Then let them meet ! 

Malet. I can but love this noble, honest Harold. 

William. Love him! why not? thine is a loving 
office. 
I have commissiou'd thee to save the man : 
Help the good ship, showing the sunken rock, 
Or lie is wreckt for ever. 

Enter Willia.m Rcfub. 



Williavi Ell/us. Father. 

William. Well, boy. 

William Rufun. They have taken away the toy thou 
gavest me, 
The Norman knight. 

William. Why, boy ? 

William Rtifiis. Because I broke 

The horse's leg— it was mine own to break ; 
I like to have my toys, and break them too. 

William. Well, thou shalt have another Norman 
knight ! 

William Riifus. And may I break his legs? 

William. Yea,— get thee gone ! 

William r.vfas. I'll tell them I have liad my way 
with thee. \.Exit. 

Malet. I never knew thee check thy will for aught 
Save for the prattling of thy little ones. 

William. Who shall be kings of England. I am heir 
Of England by the promise of her King. 

Malet. But there the great Assembly choose their 
King, 
The choice of England is the voice of England. 

William. I will be King of England by the laws. 
The choice, and voice of England. 

Malet. Pan that be ? 

William. The voice of any people is the sword 
That guards them, or the sword that beats them 

down. 
Here comes the would-be what I will be — king- 
like.... 
Tho' scarce at ease ; for, save our meshes break. 
More king-like he than like to prove a king. 

{Enter Haeold, musing, with his eyes on the ground.) 
He sees me not— and yet he dreams of me. 
Earl, wilt thou fly my falcons this fair day? 
They are of the best, strong-wing'd against the wind. 

Harold (louking up suddenly, having caught but the 
last word). Which way does it blow? 

William. Blowing for England, ha? 

Not yet. Thou hast not learnt thy quarters here. 
The winds so cross and jostle among these towers. 

Harold. Count of the Normans, thou hast rausom'd 
us, 
Maintaiu'd, and entcrtain'd us royally ! 



William. And thou for us hast fought as loyally, 
Which binds us friendship-fast for ever ! 

Harold. Good \ 

But lest we turn the scale of courtesy 
By too much jiressure on it, I would fain, 
Since thou hast promised Wulfnoth home with us. 
Be liome agaiu with Wulfuoth. 

William. Stay— as yet 

Thou hast but seen how Norman hands can strike, 
But walk'd our Normau field, scarce touch'd or 

tasted 
The splendors of our Court. 

Harold. I am in uo mood : 

I should be as the shadow of a cloud 
Crossing your light. 

William. Nay, rest a week or two, 

And we will fill thee full of Normau sun. 
And send thee back among thine island mists 
With laughter. 

Harold. Count, I thank thee, but had rather 

Breathe the free wind from oft' our Saxon downs, 
Tho' cliarged with all the wet of all the west. 

William. Why, if thou wilt, so let it be— thou shalt. 
That were a graceless hospitality 
To chain the free guest to the banquet-board; 
To-morrow we wil4 ride with thee to Harfleur, 
And see thee shipt, and pray in thy behalf 
For happier homeward wiuds than that which 

crack'd 
Thy bark at Ponthieu, — yet to us, in faith, 
A happy one, — whereby we came to kuow 
Thy valor and thy value, noble earl. 
Ay, and perchance a happy one for thee. 
Provided— I will go with thee to-morrow — 
Nay — but there be conditions, easy ones, 
So thou, fair friend, will take them easily. 

Enter Page. 
Page. My lord, there is a post from over the seas 
With news for thee. [Exit Page. 

William. Come, Malet, let us hear ! 

[Exeunt Count William and Malet. 
Harold. Conditions? What conditions? pay him 
back 
His ransom? "easy"- that were easy— nay- 
No money-lover he ! What said the King ? 
"I pray you do not go to Normandy." 
And fate hath blown me hither, bound me too 
W'ith bitter obligation to the Count- 
Have I not fought it out? What did he mean? 
There lodged a gleaming grimness in his eyes. 
Gave his shorn smile tlie lie. The walls oppress me, 
And yon huge keep that hinders half the heaven. 
Free air ! free field ! 

[Moves to go out. A Man-at-arms folloics him. 
Harold (Jo the Man-at-arms). I need Ibee not. Why 

dost thou follow me? 
Man-at-arms. I have the Count's commands to fol- 
low thee. 
Harold. What then ? Am I iu danger in this court? 
Man-at-arms. 1 cauuot tell. I have the Count's 

commands. 
Harold. Stand out of earshot then, and keep me 
still 
In eyeshot. 
Man-at-arms. Yea, lord Harold. [Withdi-aics. 

Harold. And arm'd men 

Ever keep watch beside my chamber door, 
And if I walk within the lonely wood, 
There is an arm'd man ever glides behind '. 

{Enter Malet.) 

Why am I foUow'd, haunted, harass'd, watch'd ? 
See yonder! [Pointing to the Man-at-arms. 

Malet. 'Tis the good Count's care for thee ! 

The Normans love thee not, nor thou the Normans, 
Or— so they deem. 

Harold. But wherefore is the wini 



HAROLD. 



315 



Which way soever the vaiie-an-ow swin;', ■ 
Not ever fair for Bii;;laiul ? Why but mow 
He said (thou heardst him) that I must not hence 
Save ou couditious. 

Malet. So in truth he said. 

Harold. Malet, thy mother was an En_i;lishwoniau ; 
There somewhere beats an English pulse iu thee ! 

Malet. Well — for my mother's sake I love your En- 
gland, 
But for my father I love Normandy. 

Harold. Speak for thy mother's sake, and tell me 
true. 

Malet. Then for my mother's sake, and England's 
sake 
That sutlers iu the daily want of thee, 
Obey the Count's conditions, my good friend. 

Harold. How, Malet, if they be not honorable! 

Malet. Seem to obey them. 

Harold. Better die than lie ! 

Malet. Choose therefore whether thou wilt have 
thy conscience 
White as a maiden's hand, or whether England 
Be shatter'd into fragments. 

Harold. News from England ? 

Malet. Morcar and Edwin have stirr'd up the Thanes 
Against thy brother Tostig's governance ; 
And all the North of Humber is one storm. 

Harold. I should be there, Malet, I should be there ! 

Mali. And Tostig in his own hall on suspicion 
Hath massacred the Thane that was his guest, 
Gamel, the son of Orm : and there be more 
As villainously slain. 

Harold. The wolf ! the beast ! 

Ill news for guests, ha, Malet ! More? What more? 
What do they say? did Edward know of this? 

Malet. They say, his wife was knowing and abetting. 

Harold. They say, his wife !— To marry and have 
no husband 
Makes the wife fool. My God, I should be there. 
I'll hack my way to the sea. 

Malet. Thou canst not, Harold ; 

Our Duke is all between thee and the sea. 
Our Duke is all about thee like a God ; 
All passes block'd. Obey him, speak him fair, 
For he is only debonair to those 
That follow where he leads, but stark as death 
To those that cross him.— Look thou, here is Wulf- 

uoth ! 
I leave thee to thy talk with him alone ; 
How wan, poor lad ! how sick and sad for home ! 

[Exit Malet. 

Harold (mutterinij). Go not to Normandy— go not 
to Normandy ! 

{Enter WuLFNOTu.) 
Poor brother ! still a hostage ! 

Wulfiioth. Yea, and I 

Shall see the dewy kiss of dawn no more 
Make blush the maiden-white of our tall cliffs. 
Nor mark the sea-bird rouse himself and hover 
Above the windy ripple, and till the sky 
AVith free sea-laughter— never— save indeed 
Thou canst make yield this iron-mooded Duke 
To let me go. 

Harold. Why, brother, so he will ; 

Cut on conditions. Canst thou guess at them? 

Wulfiioth. Draw nearer,— I was in the corridor; 
I saw him coming with his brother Odo 
The Bayeux bishop, and I hid myself. 

Harold. They did thee wrong who made thee host- 
age ; thou 
Wast ever fearful. 

Wulfnoth. And he spoke— I heard him — 

" This Harold is not of the royal blood, 
Can have no right to the crown," and Odo said, 
" Thine is the right, for thine the might ; he is here. 
And yonder is thy keep." 

Harold, No, Wulfnoth, no. 



Wulfnoth. And William laugh'd and swore that 
might was right. 
Far as he knew iy this poor world of ours — 
'• Marry, the Saints must go along with us, 
And, brother, we will find a way,'' said he — 
Yea, yea, he would be King of England. 
Harold. Never ! 

Wulfnoth. Yea, but thou must not this way an- 
swer /iMJl. 

Harold. Is it not better still to speak the truth? 

Wulfnoth. Not here, or thou wilt never hence nor I ; 
For iu the racing towards this golden goal 
He turns not right or left, but tramples flat 
Whatever thwarts him ; hast thou never heard 
His savagery at Aleufou, — the town 
Hung out raw hides along their walls, and cried 
"Work for the tanner." 

Harold. That had anger'd ine 

Had I been William. 

Wulfnoth. Nay, but he had prisoners, 

He tore their eyes out, sliced their hands away, 
And flung them streaming o'er the battlements 
Upon the beads of those who walk'd witliin — 
Oh, speak him fair, Harold, for thine own sake. 

Harold. Your Welshman says, "The Truth against 
the World," 
Much more the truth against myself. 

Wulfnoth. Thyself? 

But for my sake, O brother ! oh ! for my sake ! 

Harold. Poor Wulfnoth ! do they not entreat thee 
well? 

Wulfnoth. I see the blackness of my dungeon loom 
Across their lamps of revel, and beyond 
The merriest murmurs of their banquet clank 
The shackles that will bind nie to the wall. 

Harold. Too fearful still ! 

Wulfnoth. Oh no, no— speak him fair ! 

Call it to temporize, and not to lie ; 
Harold, I do not counsel thee to lie. 
The man that hath to foil a murderous aim 
May, surely, play with words. 

Harold. Words are the man. 

Not ev'n for thy sake, brother, would I lie. 

Wulfnoth. Then for thine Edith? 

Harold. There thou jirick'st me deep. 

Wulfnoth. And for our Mother England? 

Harold. Deeper still. 

Wulfnoth. And deeper still the deep-down oubliette, 
Down thirty feet below the smiling day — 
In blackness — ^dogs' food thrown upon thy head. 
And over thee the suns arise and set, 
And the lark sings, the sweet stars come and go. 
And men are at their markets, in their fields. 
And woo their loves and have forgotten thee ; 
And thou art upright in thy living grave. 
Where there is barely room to shift thy side, 
And all thine England hath forgotten thee ; 
And he our lazy-pious Norman King, 
With all his Normans round him once again. 
Counts his old beads, and hath forgotten thee. 

Harold. Thou art of my blood, and so methinks, 
my boy. 
Thy fears infect me beyond reason. Peace ! 

Wulfnoth. And then our fiery Tostig, while thy 
hands 
Are palsied here, if his Northumbrians rise 
And hurl him from them— I have heard the Normans 
Count upon this confusion— may he not make 
A league with William, so to bring him back? 

Harold. That lies within the shadow of the chance. 

Wulfnoth. And like a river in flood thro' a burst 
dam 
Descends the ruthless Noi-mau~our good King 
Kneels mumbling some old bone — our helpless folk 
Are wash'd away, wailing, in their own blood — 

Harold. Wailing ! not warring ? Boy, thou hast 
forgotten 
That thou art English. 



316 



HAROLD. 



Wulfiioth. Theu our modest women — 

I know the Normiui license— Ihiue own Edilli— 
Harold. No more! I will not heai- thee — William 

comes. 
Wulfnoth. I dare not well be seen in talk with 
thee. 
Make thou uot mention that I spake with thee. 

[Moves away to the back of the stage. 

Enter William, Malkt, and Officer. 

Officer. We have the man that rail'd against thy 
birth. 

William. Tear out his tonprue. 

Officfr. He shall not rail again. 

He said that he should see confusion fall 
On thee and on thine house. 

William. Tear out his eyes, 

And plunge him into prison. 

Officer. It shall be done. 

[Exit Officer. 

William. Look not amazed, fair earl ! Better leave 
undone 
Than do by halves— tonguelcss and eyeless, prison'd— 

Harold. Better melhiuks have slain the man at 
once ! 

Williavi. We have respect fm- man's immortal soul, 
We seldom take man's life, except in war ; 
It frights the traitor more to maim and blind. 

Harold. In mine own land I should have scoru'd 
the man, 
Or lash'd his rascal back, and let him go. 

Williavi. And let him go? To slander thee again ! 
Yet in thine own land in thy father's day 
They blinded my young kinsman, Alfred — ay, 
Some said it was thy father's deed. 

Harold. ' They lied. 

William. But thou and he— whom at thy word, for 
thou 
Art known a speaker of the truth, I free 
From this foul charge— 

Harold. Nay, nay, he freed himself 

By oath and compurgation from the charge. 
The King, the lords, the people clear'd him of it. 

William. But thou and he drove our good Nor- 
mans out 
From England, and this rankles in us j-et. 
Archbishop Robert hardly scaped with life. 

Harold. Archbishop Robert ! Robert the Arch- 
bishop ! 
Robert of Jumieges, he that— 

Malet. Quiet ! quiet ! 

Harold. Count ! if there sat within thy Norraau 
chair 
A ruler all for England— one who ffil'd 
All offices, all bishopricks with English — 
We could uot move from Dover to the number 
Saving thro' Norman bishopricks— I say 
Ye would applaud that Norman who should drive 
The stranger to the fiends ! 

William. Wliy, that is reason ! 

Warrior thou art, and mighty wise withal ! 
Ay, ay, but many among our Ncn'mau lords 
Hale thee for this, and press upon me — saying 
God and the sea have given thee to our hands— 
To plunge thee into life-long prison here: — 
Yet I hold out against them, as I may. 
Yea — would hold out, yea, tho' they should revolt — 
For thou hast done the battle in my cause; 
I am thy fastest friend In Normandy. 

Harold. I am doubly bound to thee if this be so. 

William. And I would bind thee more, and would 
myself 
Be boundeu to thee more. 

Harold. Then let me hence 

With Wulfnoth to King Edward. 

William. So we will. 

We hear he hath not long to live. 

Harold. It may be. 



Wiliiavu Why, then, the heir of England, who is 
he? 

Harold. The Atheling is nearest to the throne. 

William. But sickly, slight, half-witted and a child, 
Will England have him King? 

Harold. It may be, no. 

William. And hath King Edward uot pronoun 
bis heir? 

Harold. Not that I kuow. 

William. When he was here in Normandy, 

He loved us and we him, because we found him 
A Norman of the Normans. 

Harold. So did we. 

William. A gentle, gracious, pure and saintly man ! 
And grateful to the hand that shielded him. 
He promised that if ever he wore King 
In England, he would give his kingly voice 
To me as his successor. Knowest thou this ? 

Harold. I learn it now. 

William. Tliou knowest I am his cousin, 

And that my wife descends from Alfred ? 

Harold. Ay. 

William. Who hath a better claim theu to the 
crown 
So that ye will not crown the Atheling? 

Harold. None that I know if that but hung upon 

King Edward's will. 

William. Wilt thou uphold my claim? 

Malet (aside to Harold). Be careful of thine an- 
swer, my good friend. 

Wulfnoth {aside to Harold). Oh, Harold ! for my 
sake and for thine own ! 

Harold. Ay if the King have not revoked his 

promise. 

William. But hath he done it then ? 

Harold. Not that I know. 

William.. Good, good, and thou wilt help me to the 
crown. 

Harold. Ay if the Witan will consent to this. 

William. Thou art the mightiest voice in England, 
man, 
Thy voice will lead the Witan— shall I have it? 

Wulfnoth {aside to Harold). Oh, Harold ! if thou 
love thine Edith, ay. 

Harold. Ay, if— 

Malet {aside to Harold). Thine "ifs" will sear 
thine eyes out -ay. 

William. 1 ask thee, wilt thou help me to the 
crown ? 
And I will make thee my great Earl of Earls, 
Foremost in England and in Normandy; 
Thou Shalt be verily King— all but the name— 
For I shall most sojourn in Normandy; 
And thou be my vice-king in England. Speak. 

Wulfnoth {aside to Harold). Ay, brother— for the 
sake of England— ay. 

Harold. My lord — 

Malet {aside to Harold). Take heed now. 

Harold. Ay. 

William. I am content. 

For thou art truthful, and thy word thy bond. 
To-morrow will we ride with thee to Harfleur. 

[Exit William. 

Malet. Harold, I am thy friend, one life with thee. 
And even as I should bless thee saving mine, 
I thank thee now for having saved thyself. 

[Exit Malet. 

Harold. For having lost myself to save myself. 
Said "ay" when I meant "no," lied like a lad 
That dreads the pendent scourge, said "ay" for 

"no !" 
Ay ! no !— he hath not bound me by an oath — 
Is "ay" an oath? is "ay" strong as an oath? 
Or is it the same sin to break my word 
As break mine oath? He call'd my word my bond: 
He is a liar who knows I am a liar, 
And makes believe that he believes my word— 
The crime be on his head— not bounden— no. 



HAROLD. 



317 



ISuddenli/ doors are Jlung open, discovering 
in an inner hall Count William in his 
state robes, seated upon his throne, be- 
tween two Bishops, Oi)0 OF Bayedx being 
one: in the centre of the hall an ark cov- 
ered with cloth of gold ; and on either side 
of it the Norman barons. 

Enter a Jailor before William's throne. 
William {to Jailor). Knave, hast thou let thy pris- 
oner scape ? 
Jailor. Sir Count, 

He had but one foot, he must have hopt away, 
Yen, some familiar spirit must have help'd liim. 

William: Woe, knave, to thy familiar and to thee ! 

Give me tliy keys. IThey fall clashing. 

Nay, let them lie. Stand there and wait my will. 

[_The Jailor stands aside. 

William {to Harold). Hast thou such trustless jailors 

iu thy North ? 
Harold. We have few prisoners in mine earldom 
there, 
Si) loss chance for false keepers. 

William. We have heard 

Of thy just, mild, and equal governance ; 
Honor to thee! thou art perfect in all honor! 
Thy naked word thy bond ! contirra it now 
Before our gather'd Norman baronage, 
For they will not believe thee— as I believe. 

[Descends from his throne and stands bi/ (lie ark. 
Let all men here bear witness of our bond ! 

lUcckons to Harold, who adoances. Enter 
Malet behind him. 
Lay thou thy hand upon this golden pall! 
Behold the jewel of Saint Paucratiua 
Woven into the gold. Swear thou on this! 
Harold. What should I swear? Why should I 

swear on this ? 
William {savagelg). Swear thou to help me to the 

crown of England. 
Malet {whispering Harold). My friend, thou hast 

gone too far to palter now. 
Wulfnoth {whispering Harold). Swear thou to-day ; 

to-morrow is thine own. 
Harold. I swear to help thee to the crown of En- 
gland 

According as King Edward promises. 

William. Thou must swear absolutely, noble Earl. 
Malet {whispering). Delay is death to thee, ruin to 

England. 
Wulfnoth (lohispering). Swear, dearest brother, I 

beseech thee, swear! 
Harold {putting his hand on the jewel). I swear to 

help thee to the crown of England. 
William. Thanks, truthful Earl ; I did not doubt 
thy word. 
But that my barons might believe thy word. 
And that the Holy Saints of Normandy, 
When thou art home in England with thine own. 
Might strengthen thee in keeping of thy word, 
I made thee swear. — Show him by whom he hath 



IThe two Bishops advance, and raise tJie 
' cloth of gold. The bodies and bones of 
Saints are seen Iving in the ark. 
The holy bones of all the Canonized 
From all the holiest shrines in Normandy! 
Harold. Horrible I [The;/ let the cloth fall again 
William. Ay, for thou hast sworn an oath 
Which, if not kept, would make the hard earth rive 
To the very Devil's horns, the bright sky cleave 
To the very feet of God, and send her hosts 
Of injured Saints to scatter sparks of plague 
Thro' all your cities, blast your infants, dash 
The torch of war among your standing corn. 
Dabble your hearths with your own blood.— Enough '. 
Thou wilt not break it ! I, the Count— the King— 
Thy friend — ^am grateful for thine honest oath, 
Not coming fiercely like a conqueror, now. 
But softly as a bridegroom to his own. 
For I shall rule according to your laws. 
And make your ever-jarring Earldoms move 
To music and in order— Angle, Jute, 
Dane, Saxon, Norman, help to build a throne 

Out-towering hers of France The wind is fair 

For England now To-night we will be merry. 

To-morrow will I ride with thee to Harfleur. 

[Exeunt William and all the Norman bar- 
ons, etc, 
Harold. To-night we will be merry— and to-mor- 
row — 
Juggler and bastard— bastard— he hates that most- 
William the tanner's bastard ! Would he heard me ! 

God, that I were in some wide, waste field 
With nothing but my battle-axe and him 

To spatter his brains I Why let earth rive, gulf in 
These cursed Normans— yea, and mine own self. 
Cleave heaven, and send thy saints that I may say 
Ev'n to their faces, " If ye side with Williau), 
Ye are not noble." How their pointed fingers 
Glared at me ! Am I Harold, Harold son 
Of our great Godwin ? Lo ! I touch mine arms. 
My limbs— they are not mine— they are a liar's— 

1 mean to be a liar— I am not bound — 
Stigand shall give me absolution f)r it — 

Did the chest move? did it move? I am niter cra- 
ven ! 
O Wulfnoth, Wulfnoth, brother, thou hast betray'd 
me ! 
Wulfnoth. Forgive me, brother, I will live here and 
die. 

Enter Page. 
Page. My lord ! the Duke awaits thee at the ban- 
quet. 
Harold. Where they eat dead men's flesh, and 

drink their blood. 
Page. My lord— 

Harold. I know your Norman cookery is so spiced, 
It masks all this. 
Page. My lord ! thou art white as death. 

Harold. With looking on the dead. Am I so 
white ? 
Thy Duke will seem the darker. Hence, I follow. 

[Exeunt. 



318 



HAROLD. 



ACT III. 



SCENE I.— THE KING'S PALACE. 
LONDON. 

Kino Edward dijvnri on a couch, and hy him stand- 
ing the Queen, Hakoi.d, Akchuisitoi" Stigand, 
GuRTii, Leofwin, Aecuuisuop Aldbed, Ai-dw'ytu, 
and Edith. 

Stiria7id. Sleeping or dying there ? If this be 
death, 
Then our great Council wait to crown thee King- 
Come hither, I have a power; [To Hakold. 
They call me near, for I am close to thee 
And England— I, old shrivell'd Stigand, I, 
Dry as an old wood-fungus on a dead tree, 
I have a power ! 

See here this little key abont my neck ! 
There lies a treasure buried down in Ely: 
If e'er the Norman grow too hard for thee. 
Ask me for this at thy most need, son Harold, 
At thy most need— not sooner. 

Harold. So I will. 

Stiijand. Red gold — a hundred purses-yea, and 
more ! 
If thou canst make a wholesome use of these 
To chink against the Norman, I do believe 
My old crook'd spine would bud out tw.. young 

wings 
To fly to heaven straight with. 

Harold. Thank thee, father ! 

Thou art English ; Edward too is English now. 
He hath clean repented of his Norinauism. 

Stigand. Ay, as the libertine repents who cannot 
Make done undone, when thro' his dying sense 
Shrills " lost thro' thee." They have built their cas- 
tles hei'e ; 
Our priories are Norman ; the Norman adder 
Hath bitten us ; we are poison'd : our dear England 
Is demi-Norman. He !— 

{Pointing to King Edward, sleeping. 

Harold. I would I were 

As holy and as passionless as he ! 
That I might rest as calmly ! Look at him — 
The rosy face, and long down-silvering beard, 
The brows iinwrinkled as a summer mere.— 

Stigand. A summer mere with sudden wreckful 
gusts 
From a side-gorge. Passionless? How he flamed 
When Tostig's auger'd earldom flung him ! Nay, 
He fain liad calcined all Northumbria 
To one black ash, but that thy patriot passion. 
Siding with our great Council against Tostig, 
Out-passioii'd his! Holy? ay, ay, forsooth, 
A conscience for his own soul, not his realm ; 
A twilight conscience lighted thro' a chink; 
Thine by the sun ; nay, by some sun to be, 
When all the world hath learnt to speak the truth. 
And lying were self-murder by that state 
Which was the exception. 

Harold. That sun may God speed ! 

Stigand. Come, Harold, shake the cloud off! 

Harold. Can I, father? 

Our Tostig parted cursing me and England ; 
Our sister hates us for his banishment; 
He hath gone to kindle Norway against England, 
And WuUnoth is alone in Normandy. 
For when I rode with William down to Ilarflenr, 
"Wulfnoth is sick," he said; "he cannot follow;" 
Then with that frieudly-fiendly smile of his, 



"We have learnt to love him, let him a little longer 
Remain a hostage for the loyalty 
or Godwin's house." As far as touches Wulfuoth, 
I that so prized plain word and naked truth 
Have sinu'd against it— all in vaiu. 

Leofwin. Good brother. 

By all the truths that ever priest hath preacli'd. 
Of all the lies that ever men have lied, 
Thine is the pardouablest. 

Harold. May be so ! 

I think it so, I think I am a fool 
To tliink it can be otlierwise than so. 

Stigand. Tut, tut, I have absolved thee ; dost thou 
scorn me, 
Because I had my Canterbury pallium 
From one whom they dispoped ? 

Harold. No, Stigand, no '. 

Stigand. Is naked truth actab'e in true life? 
I have heard a saying of thy father Godwin, 
That, were a man of state nakedly true, 
Men would but take him for the craftier liar. 

Leofwin. Be men less delicate than the Devil him- 
self? 
I thought that naked Truth would shame the Devil, 
The Devil is so modest. 

Giirth. He never said it I 

Leofwin. Be thou not stupid-honest, brother Gurili ! 

Harold. Better to be a liar's dog, and hold 
My master honest, than believe that lying 
And ruling men are fatal twins that cannot 
Move one without the other. Edward wakes I— 
Dazed— he hath seen a vision. 

Edward. The green treel 

Then a great Angel past along the highest, 
Crying " the doom of England," and at once 
He stood beside me, in his grasp a sword 
Of lightnings, wherewithal he cleft the tree 
From off the bearing trunk, and hurl'd it from him 
Three fields away, and then he dash'd and dreuch'd, 
He dyed, he soak'd the trunk with human blood, 
And brought the sunder'd tree again, and set it 
Straight on the trunk, that thus baptized in blood 
Grew ever high and higher, beyond my seeing, 
And shot out sidelong boughs across the deep 
That dropt themselves, and rooted In far isles 
Beyond my seeing: and the great Angel rose 
And past again along the highest, crying 
"The doom of England !"— Tostig, raise my head I 
U'^alls back senscle.'m. 

Harold {raising him). Let Harold serve for Tostig! 

Queen. Harold served 

Tostig so ill, he cannot serve for Tostig ! . 
Ay, raise his head, for thou hast laid it low ! 
The sickness of our saintly King, for \vhom 
My prayers go up as fast as my tears fall, 
I well believe, hath mainly drawn itself 
From lack of Tostig— thou hast banish'd him. 

Harold. Nay— but the Council, and the King him- 
self! 

Qn/'pn. Thou hatest him, hatcst him. 

Harold (coldlg). Ay— Stigand, unriddle 

This vision, canst thouf 

Stigand. Dotage ! 

Edward {starting up). It is ftnish'd. 

I have built the Lord a house— the Lord hath dwelt 
In darkness. I have built the Lord a house- 
Palms, flowers, pomegranates, golden cherubim 
With twenty-cubit wings from wall to wall — 
I have built the Lord a house— sing, Asaph ! clash 



H7VR0LD. 



319 



1 he cymbal, Heinan ! blow the trumpet, priest ! 
Fall, cloud, and till the house— lo! my two pillars, 
Jachiu aud Boaz ! — [Seeing IIauoi.d and Guiixii. 

Harold, Giuth— wheie am I? 
Where is the charter of our Westminster? 
Stigaml. It lies beside thee, King, upou thy bed. 
Edward. Sign, sign at once— take, sigu it, Stigand, 
Aldred'l 
Sign it, my good sou Harold, Gurlh, and Leofwiu ! 
Sigu it, my t^ueeu 1 
All. We have sigu'd it. 

Edward. It is flnish'd ! 

The kingliest Abbey iu all Christian lands, 
The lordliest, loftiest minster ever built 
To Holy Peter in our English isle ! 
Let 7ne be buried tliere, and all our kings. 
And all our just and wise aud holy men 
Tliat shall be born hereafter. It is flnish'd ! 
Ilast thou had absolution for thine oath ? 

[To Hakolii. 
Harold. Stigand hath given me absolution for it. 
Edward. Stigand is not canonical enough 
To save thee from the wrath of Norniau Saints. 
Stigand. Norman enough I Be there no Saints of 
England 
To help us from their brethren yonder? 

Edward. Prelate, 

The Saints are one, but those of Normauland 
Are mightier than our own. Ask it of Aldred. 

[To H Alto 1.1). 
Aldred. It shall be granted him, my King; for he 
Who vows a vow to strangle his own mother 
Is guiltier keeping this, than breaking it. 
Edward. O friends, I shall not overlive the day. 
Stigand. Why then the throne is empty. Who in- 
herits? 
For tho' we be not bound by the King's voice 
In making of a kiug, yet the King's voice 
Is much toward his making. Who inherits? 
Edgar the Atheling? 

Edward. No, no, but Harold. 

I love him: he hath served me: none but he 
Can rule all England. Yet the curse is on him 
For swearing falsely by those blessed bones; 
He did uot mean to keep his vow. 

Harold. Not mean 

To make our England Norman. 

Edward. There spake Godwin, 

Who hated all the Normans; but their Saiuts 
Have heard thee, Harold. 

Edith. Oh ! my lord, my King ! 

He kuew not whom he sware by. 

Edward. Yea, I know 

He knew uot ; but those heavenly cars have heard. 
Their curse is on him; wilt thou bring auother, 
Edith, upou his head? 
Edith. No, no, not I. 

Edward. Why then, thou must uot wed him. 
Harold. Wherefore, wherefore? 

Edward. O son, when thou didst tell me of thine 
oath, 
I sorrow'd for my random promise given 
To yon fox-lion. I did uot dream then 
I should be king.— My sou, the Saints are virgius; 
They love the white rose of virginity. 
The cold white lily blowing in her cell: 
I have been myself a virgin ; and I sware 
To consecrate my virgin here to Heaven — 
The silent, cloister'd, solitary life, 
A life of life-long prayer against the curse 
That lies ou thee aud England. 
Harold. No, no, no. 

Edward. Treble denial of the tongue of flesh, 
Like Peter's when he fell, and thou wilt have 
To wail for it like Peter. O my son ! 
Are all oaths to be broken then, all promises 
Made in our agony for help from Heaven ? 
Son, there is one who loves thee : aud a wife, 

21 



What matters who, so she be serviceable 
In all obedience, as mine own hath been: 
God bless thee, wedded daughter. 

[Laying his hand on the Quken's head. 
Queen. Bless thou too 

That brother whom I love beyond the rest, 
My banish'd Tostig. 

Edward. All the sweet Saiuts bless him ! 

Spare and forbear him, Harold, if he comes ! 
And let him pass unscathed : he loves me, Harold ! 
Be kindly to the Normans left among us. 
Who follow'd me for love I aud, dear son, swear 
Wheu thou art Kiug to see my solemn vow 
Acconiplish'd ! 

Harold. Nay, dear lord, for I have sworn 

Not to swear falsely twice. 
Edward. Thou wilt not swear? 

Harold. I cannot. 

Edward. Then on thee remains the curse, 

Harold, if thou embrace her: and ou thee, 
Edith, if thou abide it, — 

[The King swoons; Euitu falls and kneels by the 
couch. 
Stigand. He hath swoon'd ! 

Death? no, as yet a breath. 

Harold. Look up ! look up ! 

Edith : 

Aldred. Confuse her uot ; she hath begun 
Her life-long prayer for thee. 

Aldwyth. O noble Harold, 

I would thou couldst have sworn. 
Harold. For thiue own pleasure? 

Aldwyth. No, but to please our dying King, and 
those 
Who make thy good their own — all Englaud, Earl. 
Aldred. I would thou couldst have sworu. Our 
holy King 
Hath given his virgin lamb to Holy Church 
To save thee from the curse. 

Harold. Alas ! poor man. 

His promise brought it ou me. 

A hired. O good sou ! 

That knowledge made him all the carefuller 
To ttud a means whereby the curse might glauce 
From thee and Eugland. 
Harold. Father, we so loved — 

Aldred. The more the love, the mightier is the 
prayer ; 
The more the love, the more acceptable 
The sacrifice of both your loves to Heaven. 
No sacritice to Heaven, no help from Heaven ; 
That runs thro' all the faiths of all the world. 
Aud sacrifice there must be, f 'r the King 
Is holy, and hath talk'd with God, aud seen 
A shadowing horror; there are signs iu heaven— 
Harold. Your comet came aud went. 
Aldred. And signs ou earth ! 

Knowest thou Seiilac hill? 

Harold. I know all Sussex; 

A good entrenchment for a perilous hour! 
Aldred. Pray God that come not suddenly! There 
is one 
Who passing by that hill three nights ago— 
He shook so that he scarce could out with it — 
Heard, heard — 
Harold. The wind in his hair? 

Aldred. A ghostly horn 

Blowing continually, aud faint battle-hymns, 
Aud cries, and clashes, aud the groans of men; 
And dreadful shadows strove upou the hill. 
And dreadful lights crept up from out the marsh— 
Corpse-candles gliding over nameless graves — 
Harold. At Seulac? 
Aldred. Seulac. 

Edward (waking). Seulac! Sanguelac, 

The Lake of Blood ! 

Stigand. This lightning before death 

Plays on the word,— aud Normanizes tool 



320 



HAROLD. 



Harold. Hush, father, hush ! 

Edward. Thou uncanonical fool, 

Wilt thou play with the thunder? North and South 
Thnuder together, showers of blood are blown 
Before a never-ending blast, and hiss 
Against the blaze they cannot quench— a lake, 
A sea of blood— we arc drowu'd in blood— for God 
Has till'd the quiver, and Death has drawn the bow— 
Sauguelac ! Sanguclac ! the arrow ! the arrow ! 

[DL'S. 

Stigand. It is the arrow of death in his own heart— 
Aud our great Council wait to crown thee King. 



SCENE II.— IN THE GARDEN. THE 
KING'S HOUSE NEAR LONDON. 

Edith. 
Edith. Crown'd, crowu'd and lost, crowu'd King— 
aud lost to me ! 

(Sinjing.) 

Two young lovers in winter weather. 

None to guide them, 
Walk'd at night on the misty heather; 
Night, as black as a raven's feather ; 
Both were lost and found together. 

None beside them. 

That is the burthen of it — lost and found 

Together in the cruel river Swale 

A hundred years ago ; and there's another. 

Lost, lost, the light of day, 

To which the lover answers lovingly, 

" I am beside thee." 
Lost, lost, we have lost the way. 
" Love, I will guide thee." 

Whither, O whither ? into the river, 
Where we two may be lost together, 
And lost for ever? "Oh ! never, oh! never, 
Tho' we be lost and be found together." 

Some think they loved within the pale forbidden 
By Holy Church: but who shall say? the truth 
Was lost in that fierce North, where theij were lost. 
Where all good things are lost, where Toslig lost 
The good hearts of his people. It is Harold ! 

(Enter H.vroi.d.) 

Haiold the King! 

Harold. Call me not King, but Harold. 

Edith. Nay, thou art King! 

Harold. Thine, thine, or King or churl 

My girl, thou hast been weeping: turu not thou 
Thy face av/ay, but rather let me be 
King of the moment to thee, and command 
That kiss my due when subject, which will make 
My kingship kinglier to me than to reign 
King of the world without it. 

Edith. Ask me not, 

Lest I should yield it, and the second curse 
Descend upon thine head, and thou be only 
King of the moment over England. 

Harold. Edith, 

Tho' somewhat less a king to my true self 
Than ere they crown'd me one, for I have lost 
Somewhat of upright stature thro' mine oath. 
Yet thee I would not lose, and sell not thou 
Our living passion for a dead man's dream ; 
Stigand believed he knew not what he spake. 
O God ! I cannot help it, but at times 
They seem to me too narrow, all the faiths 
Of this grown world of ours, whose baby eye 
Saw them sufficient. Fool and wise, I fear 



This curse, and scorn it. But a little light^I — 
And on it falls the shadow of the priest ; 
Heaveu yield us more ! for better, Woden, all 
Our cancell'd warrior-gods, our grim Walhalla, 
Eternal war, than that the Saints at peace 
The Holiest of our Holiest one should be 
Tliis William's fellow-tricksters ; — better die 
Than credit this, for death is death, or else 
Lifts us beyond the lie. Kiss me— thou art not 
A holy sister yet, my girl, to fear 
There might be more than brother in my kiss. 
And more than sister in thine own. 
Edith. I dare not. 

Harold. Scared by the church— "Love for a whole 
life long" 
When was that sting? 
Edith. Here to the nightingales. 

Harold. Their anthems of no church, how sweet 
they are ! 
Nor kingly priest, nor priestly king to cross 
Their billings ere they nest. 

Edith. They are but of spring, 

They fly the winter change— not so with us— 
No wings to come and go. 

Harold. But wing'd souls flying 

Beyond all change and iu the eternal distance 
To settle on the Truth. 

Edith. They are not so true. 

They change their mates. 
Harold. Do they? I did not know it. 

Edith. They say thou art to wed the Lady Ald- 

wyth. 
Harold. They say, they say. 
Edith. If this be politic, 

And well for thee and England— and for her — 
Care not for me who love thee. 
Garth (callinrj). Harold, Harold ! 

Harold. The voice of Gurth ! (Enter Guutu.) Good 

even, my good brother ! 
Gurth. Good even, gentle Edith. 
Edith. Good even, Gurth. 

Gurth. Ill news hath come ! Our hapless brother, 
Tostig- 
He, and the giant King of Norway, Harold 
Hardrada — Scotland, Ireland, Iceland, Orkney, 
Are landed North of Ilumber, and in a field 
So packt with carnage that the dikes and brooks 
Were bridged and damm'd with dead, have ovcr- 

throwNi 
Morcar and Edwin. 

Harold. Well then, we must fight. 

How blows the wind? 

Gurth. Against St. Valery 

And William. 
Harold. Well, then, we will to the North. 

Gurth. Ay, but worse news: this William sent to 
Rome, 
Swearing thou swarest falsely by his Saints: 
The Pope and that Archdeacon Hildebrand 
His master, heard him, and have sent him back 
A holy gonfanon, and a blessed hair 
Of Peter; and all France, all Burgundy, 
Poitou, all Christendom is raised against thee; 
He hath cursed thee, and all those who fight f.ir 

thee. 
And given thy realm of England to the bastard. 
Harold. Ila ! ha! 

Edith. Oh! laugh not! — Strange and ghastly in 
the gloom 
And shadowing of this double thunder-cloud 
That lours on England— laughter ! 

Harold. No, not strange ! 

This was old human laughter in old Rome 
Before a pope was born, when that which rcign'd 
Call'd itself God.— A kindly rendering 
Of "Render unto Csesar." — The Good Shepherd! 
Take this, and render that. 
Gurth. They have taken York. 



HAROLD. 



321 



Harold. The Lord was God and came as man— the 
Pope 
Is man and conies as God. — York taken? 

Gurth. Yea, 

Tostig hath taken Yoik ! 

Harold. To York then. Edith, 

Hadst thou been braver, I had better l)raved 
All— but I love thee, and thou nic— and that 
Remains beyond all chances and all churches. 
And that thou kuowest. 

Edith. Ay, but take back thy ring. 



It burns my hand — a curse to thee and me. 
I dare not wear it. 

{.Proffers Hauold the ring, lohich he takes. 

Harold. But I dare. God with thee ! 

iExnmt Hakoi.d and Gcrtu. 

Edith. The King hath cursed him, if he marry me: 
The Pope hath cursed him, marry me or no! 
God help me ! I know nothing — can but pray 
For Harold— pray, pray, pray— uo help but prayer, 
A breath that fleets beyond this iron world, 
.'Vnd touches Ilim that made it. 



ACT IV. 



SCENE I.— IxN NORTHUMBRIA. 

AKOHiiisuop Aldred, Moeoar, Edwin, and Forces. 
Enter Hakold. Tlie standard of the Gulden Dragon 
of iVesscx preceding him. 

Harold. What! aie thy people sulleu from defeat? 
Our Wessex dragon flies beyond the Ilumber, 
No voice to greet it. 

Edwin. Let not our great King 

Believe us sulleu — only shamed to the quick 
Before the King- as having been so bruised 
By Harold, King of Norway ; l)ut our help 
Is Harold, King of England. Pardoii us, thou ! 
Uar silence is our reverence for the King! 

Harold. Earl of the Mercians ! if the truth be gall. 
Cram me not thou with honey, when our good hive 
Needs every sting to save it. 

Voices. Aldwyth ! Aldwyth ! 

Harold. Why cry thy people on thy sister's name? 

Morcar. She hath won upon our people thro' her 
beauty. 
And pleasantness among them. 

Voices. Aldwyth, Aldwyth ! 

Harold. They shout as they would have her for a 
queen. 

Morcar. She hath followed with our host, and suf- 
fer'd all. 

Harold. What would ye, men ? 

Voice. Our old Northumbiian crown. 

And kings of our own choosing. 

Harold. Your old crown 

Were little help without our Saxon carles 
Against Hardrada. 

Voice. Little! we are Danes,' 

Who couqner'd what we walk on, our own field. 

Harold. They have been plotting here! [Aside. 

Voice. He calls us little! 

Harold, the kingdoms of this world began with 
little, 
A hill, a foit, a city — that reach'd a hand 
Down to the field beneath it, "Be thou mine;" 
Then to the next, "Thou also — " if the field 
Cried out "I am mine own ; " another hill. 
Or fort, or city, took it, and the first 
Fell, and the next became an Empire. 

Voice. Yet 

Thou art but a West Saxon : ice are Danes ! 

Harold. My mother is a Dane, and I am English ; 
There is a pleasant fable in old books, 
Ye take a stick, and break it ; bind a score 
All in one faggot, snap it over knee 
Ye cannot. 

Voice. Hear King Haro'.d ! he says true ! 

Harold. Would ye be Norsemen ? 

Voices. No ! 

Harold. Or Norman ? 

Voices. No ! 



Harold. Snap uot the faggot-baud then. 

Voice. That is true ! 

Voice. Ay, but thou art uot kingly, only grandson 
To Wulfiioth, a poor cow-herd. 

Harold. This old Wulfuoth 

Would take me on his knees and tell me tales 
Of Alfred and of Athelstan the Great 
Who drove you Danes ; and yet he held that Dane, 
Jute, Angle, Saxon, were or should be all 
One England, for this cow-herd, like my father, 
Who shook the Norman scoundrels off the throne, 
Had in him kingly thoughts— a king of men. 
Not made, but born, like the great King of all, 
A light among the oxen. 

Voice. That is true ! 

Voice. Ay, and I love him now, for mine own father 
Was great, and cobbled. 

Voice. Thou art Tostig's brother. 

Who wastes the land. 

Harold. This brother comes to save 

Your land from waste ; I saved it once before. 
For when your people banish'd Tostig hence. 
And Edward would have sent a host against you, 
Then I.iwho loved my brother, bade the King, 
Who doted on him, sanction your decree 
Of Tostig's banishment, and choice of Morcar, 
To help the realm from scattering. 

Voice. King ! thy brother, 

If one may dare to speak the truth, was wroug'd. 
Wild was he, born so: bat the plots against him 
Had madden'd tamer men. 

Morcar. Thou art one of those 

Who brake into Lord Tostig's treasure-house 
And slew two hundred of his following, 
And now, when Tostig hath come back with power. 
Are frighted back to Tostig. 

Old Thane. Ugh ! Plots and feuds ! 

This is my ninetieth birthday. Can ye not 
Be brethren? Godwin still at feud with Alfgar, 
And Alfgar hates King Harold. Plots and feuds! 
This is my ninetieth birthday ! 

Harold. Old man, Harold 

Hates nothing; not his fault, if our two houses 
Be less than brothers. 

Voices. Aldwyth, Harold, Aldwyth '. 

Haroii7. Again ! Morcar! Edwin! What do they 
mean ? 

Edicin. So the good King would deign to lend an 
ear 
Not overscnrnftil, we might chance— perchance— 
To guess their meaning. 

Morcar. Thine own meaning, Harold, 

To make all England one, to close all feuds. 
Mixing our bloods, that thence a king may rise 
Half Godwin and half Alfgar, one to rule 
All England beyond question, beyond quarrel. 

Harold. Who sow'd this fancy here among the 
people ? 



322 



HAROLD. 



Morcar. Who kuows what sows itself amoug the 
people ? 
A goodly flower at times. 

Harold. The Qneen of Wales ? 

Why, Morcar, it is all but duty iu her 
To hate me ; I have heard she hates me. 

Morcar. No ! 

For I can swear to that, but cannot swear 
That these will follow thee against the Norsemen, 
If thou deny them this. 

Harold. Morcar and Edwin, 

When will ye cease to plot against my house? 

Edwin. The King can scarcely dream that we, who 
know 
His prowess in the mountains of the West, 
Should caie to plot against him in the North. 

Morcar. Who dares arraign us. King, of such a plot ? 

Harold. Ye- heard one witness even now. 

Morcar. The craven ! 

There is a faction risen again for Tostig, 
Since Tostig came with Norway— fright not love. 

Harold. Morcar and Edwin, will ye, if I yield, 
Follow against the Norseman ? 

Morcar. Surely, snrely ! 

Harold. Morcar and Edwin, will ye, upon oath. 
Help us against the Norman ? 

Morcar. With good Avill ; 

Yea, take the Sacrament upon it, King. 

Harold. Where is thy sister? 

Morcar. Somewhere hard at hand ; 

Call and she comes. 

[One goes out, then enter ALnvvvTu. 

Harold. I doubt not but thou kuowest 

Why thou art snnimou'd. 

Aldwijth. Why?— I stay with these, 

Lest thy fierce Tostig spy me out alone. 
And flay me all alive. 

Harold. Canst thou love one 

Who did discrown thine husband, nnqueeu thee? 
Didst thou not love thine husband? 

Aldimjth. Oh ! my lord. 

The nimble, wild, red, wiry, savage King- 
That was, my lord, a match of policy. 

Harold. Was it? 

I knew him brave: he loved his land: he fiiin 
Had made her great : his finger on lier harp 
(I heard him more than once) had in it Wales, 
Her floods, her woods, her hills: had I been his, 
I had been all Welsh. 

AUhoyth. Oh, ay— all Welsh— and yet 

I saw thee drive him up his hills— and women 
Cling to the conquer'd, if they love, the more ; 
If not, they cannot hate the conqueror. 
We never — oh ! good Morcar, speak for us. 
His conqueror conquer'd Aldwyth. 

Harold. Goodly news ! 

Morcar. Doubt it not thou ! Siuce Griflyth's head 
was sent 
To Edward, she hath said it. 

Harold. I had rather 

She would have loved her husband. Aldwyth, Ald- 
wyth, 
Canst thou love me, thou knowing where I love? 

Aldwyth. I can, my lord, for mine own sake, for 
thine, 
For England, for thy poor white dove, who flutters 
Between thee and the i)orch, but then would find 
Her nest within the cloister, and be still. 

Harold. Canst thou love one who cannot love 
again ? 

Aldwijth. Full hope have I that love will answer 
love. 

Harold. Then, in the name of the great God, so be 
it! 
Come, Aldred, join our hands before the hosts. 
That all may see. 

[Ai.nKKD joins the hands of Harold and 
Aldwytu and blesses them. 



Voices. Harold, Harold and Aldwyth ! 

Harold. Set forth our Golden Dragon, let him flap 
The wings that beat down Wales ! 
Advance our Standard of the Warrior, 
Dark among gems and gold; and thou, brave ban- 
ner. 
Blaze like a night of fatal stars on those 
Who read their doom and die. 
Where lie the Norsemen? on the Derwcnt? ay, 
At Stamford-bridge. 

Morcar, collect thy men ; Edwin, my friend— 
Thou lingerest. — Gurth, — 

Last night King Edward came to me in dreams — 
The rosy face and long down-silvering beard- 
He told me I should conquer:— 
I am no woman to put faith iu dreams. 
{To his A mill.) Last night King Edward came to me 

in dreams. 
And told me we should conquer. 

Voices. Forward ! Forward I 

Harold and Holy Cross ! 

Aldwyth. The day is won! 



SCENE II.— A PLAIN. BEFORE THE 
BATTLE OF STAMFORD-BRIDGE. 

Harold and his Guard. 
Harold. Who is it comes this way? Tostig? 

{Enter Tostig ivith a sinall force.) 

O brother, 
What art thou doing here ? 

Tostig. ' I am foraging 

For Norway's armj'. 

Harold. I could take aud slay thee. 

Thou art in arms against us. 

Tostig. Take and slay me, 

For Edward loved me. 

Harold. Edward bade me spare thee. 

Tostig. I hate King Edward, for he joiu'd with 
thee 
To drive me outlaw'd. Take aud slay me, I say, 
Or I shall count thee fool. 

Harold. Take thee, or free thee, 

Free thee or slay thee, Norway will have war ; 
No man would strike with Tostig, save for Norway. 
Thou art nothing in thiue England, save for Nor- 
way, 
Whojoves not thee, but war. What dost thou here. 
Trampling thy mother's bosom into blood? 

Tostig. She hath wean'd me from it with such 
bitterness. 
I come for mine own Earldom, my Northumbria ; 
Tliou hast given it to the enemy of our house. 

Harold. Northumbria threw thee ofl", she will not 
have thee ; 
Thou hast misused her: and, O crowning crime! 
Hast murder'd thine own guest, the son of Orm, 
Gamel, at thine own hearth. 

Tostig. The slow, fat fool ! 

He drawl'd and prated so, I smote him suddenly, 
I knew not what I did. 

Harold. Come back to us. 

Know what thou dost, and we may find for thee, 
So thou be chasten'd by thy banishment. 
Some easier Earldom. 

Tostig. What for Norway then ? 

He looks for land among you, he aud his. 

Harold. Seven feet of English land, or something 
more. 
Seeing he is a giant. 

Tostig. O brother, brother, 

O Harold— 

Harold. Nay then come thou back to us! 

Tostig. Never shall any man say that I, that Tostig 
Conjured the mightier Harold from his North 



HAROLD. 



323 



To do Uie battle for me here in England, 
Then left him for the meaner! thee !— 
Thou hast no pus^sion fov the House of Godwin— 
Thou hast but cared to make thyself a King— 
Thou hast sold me for a cry — 
Thou gavest thy voice against me in the Council— 
I hate thee, and despise thee, and defy thee. 
Farewell for ever ! [Exit. 

Harold. On to Stamford-bridge ! 



SCENE III. — AFTER THE BATTLE OF 
STAMFORD-BRIDGE. BANQUET. 

Harold and Aldwyth. GnRTn, Ldofwin, Mokoak, 
Enwix, and other Earls ami Thanes. 

Voices. Hail, Harold ! Aldwyth ! hail, bridegroom 
and bride 1 

Aldxmjth (talking with Harold). Answer them thou! 
Is this our marriage-banquet? Would the wines 
Of wedding had been dash'd into the cups 
Of victory, and our marriage and thy glory 
Been drunk together! these poor hands but sew, 
Spin, broider— would that they were man's to have 

held 
The battle-axe by thee ! 

Harold. There teas a moment 

When being forced aloof from all my guard. 
And striking at Hardrada and his madmen 
I had wish'd for any weapon. 

Aldwyth. Why art thon sad ? 

Harold. I have lost the boy who play'd at ball 
with me, 
With whom I fought another fight than this 
Of Stamford-bridge. 

Aldunjth. Ay! ay! thy victories 

Over our own poor Wales, when at thy side 
He conquer'd with thee. 

Harold. No— the childish list 

That cannot strike again. 

Aldwyth. Thou art too kindly. 

Why didst thon let so many Norsemen hence? 
Thy fierce forekiugs had clench'd their pirate hides 
To the bleak church doors, like kites upon a barn. 

Harold. Is there so great a need tp tell thee why? 

Aldwyth. Yea, am I not thy wife? 

Voices. Hail, Harold, Aldwyth ! 

Bridegroom and bride ! 

Aldwyth (to Harold). Answer them ! 

Harold (to all). Earls and Thanes ! 

Full thanks for your fair greeting of my bride ! 
Earls, Thanes, and all our countrymen ! the day, 
Our day beside the Derwent will not shine 
Less than a star among the goldenest hours 
Of Alfred, or of Edward his great sou. 
Or Athelstan, or English Ironside 
Who fought with Kunt, or Knut who, coming Dane, 
Died English. Every man about his King 
Fought like a king; the King like his own man. 
No better : one for all, and all for one, 
One soul ! and therefore have we shatter'd back 
The hugest wave from Norseland ever yet 
Surged on us, and our battle-axes broken 
The Raven's wing, and dumb'd his carrion crouk 
From the gray sea for ever. Many are gone — 
Drink to the dead who died for us, the living 
Who fought and would have died, but happier lived, 
If happier be to live; they both have life 
In the large mouth of England, till her voice 
Die with the world. Hail— hail ! 

Morcar. May all invaders perish like Hardrada! 
All traitors fail like Tostig ! [.IM drink but Habolp. 

Aldwyth. Thy cup's full! 

Harold. I saw the hand of Tostig dbver it. 
Our dear, dead, traitor-brother, Tostig, him 
Reverently we buried. Friends, had I been here, 



Without too large self-lauding I must hold 
The sequel had been other than his league 
With Norway, and this battle. Peace be with him! 
He was not of the worst. If there be those 
At banquet in this hall, and hearing me — 
For there be those I fear who prick'd the lion 
To make him spring, that sight of Danish blood 
Might serve an end not English— peace with them 
Likewise, if they can be at peace with what 
God gave us to divide us from the wolf! 

Aldwyth (aside to Harold). Make not our Morcar 
sullen : it is not wise. 

Harold. Hail tc the living who fought, the dead 
who fell ! 

Voices. Hail, hail ! 

First Thane. How ran that answer which King 
Harold gave 
To his dead namesake, when he ask'd for England ? 

Leo/win. "Seven feet of English earth, or some- 
thing more, 
Seeing he is a giant !" 

First Thane. Then for the bastard 

Six feet and nothing more! 

Leo/win. Ay, but belike 

Thou hast not learnt his measure. 

First Thane. By St. Ednjuud, 

I over-measure him. Sound sleep to the man 
Here by dead Norway without dream or dawn ! 

Second Thane. What, is he bragging still that he 
will come 
To thrust our Harold's throne from under him ? 
My nurse would tell me of a molehill crying 
To a mountain "Stand aside and room for me i- 

First Thane. Let him come ! let him come. Here''< 
to him, sink or swim ! [Drinkft. 

Second Thane. God sink him ! 

First Thane. Cannot hands which had the strength 
To shove that stranded iceberg off our shores. 
And send the shatter'd North again to sea. 
Scuttle his cockle-shell ? What's Bruuanburg 
To Stamford-bridge? a war-crash, and so hard. 
So loud, that, by St. Dunstan, old St. Thor— 
By God, we thought him dead— but our old Thor 
Heard his own thunder again, and woke and came 
Among us again, and mark'd the sons of those 
Who made this Britain England break the North : 

Mark'd how the war-axe swang. 
Heard how the war-horn sang, 
Mark'd how the spear-head sprang, 
Heard how the shield-wall rang. 
Iron on iron clang, 
Anvil on hammer bang — 

Second Thane. Hammer on anvil, hammer on an- 
vil. Old dog, 
Thou art drunk, old dog ! 

First Thane. Too drunk to fight with thee! 

Second Thane. Fight thou with thine own double, 
not with me: 
Keep that for Norman William ! 

First Thane. Down with William ! 

Third Thane. The washerwoman's brat ! 

Fourth Thaiie. The tanner's bastard ! 

Fifth Thaw. The Falaise byblow ! 

[.Enter a Thane, from Pevcnsey, spattered 
with mud. 

Harold. Ay, but what late guest, 

As haggard as a fast of forty days. 
And caked and plaster'd with a hundred mires, 
Hath stumbled on our cups? 

Thane from Pevcnsey. My lord the King I 

William the Norman, for the wind had changed — 

Harold. I felt it in the middle of that fierce fight 
At Stamford-bridge. William hath landed, ha ? 

Thane from Pevcnsey. Lauded at Pevensey — I am 
from Pevensey — 
Hath wasted all the land at Pevensey — 
Hath harried mine own cattle— God confound him! 



324 



HAROLD. 



I have ridden uis^ht and day from Peveiisey— 
A thousand ships, a hundred thousand men — 
Thousands of horses, lilie as mauy iions 
Neighing and roaring as they leapt to land — 

Harold. How oft in coming hast thou broken 
bread ? 

Thane from Pevensey. Some thrice, or so. 

Harold. Bring not thy hollowness 

On our fall feast. Famine is fear, were it but 
Of being starved. Sit down, sit down, and eat. 
And, when again red-blooded, speak again ; 
(Aside.) The men that guarded England to the South 

Were scatter'd to the harvest No power mine 

To hold their force together Mauy are fallen 



At Stamford-bridge the people, stnpid-snre. 

Sleep like their swiue iu South aud North at once 

I could not be. 

(Aloud.) Gnrth, Leofwin, Morcar, Edwin ! 

(.Pointing to the revellers.) The curse of England ! these 

are drown'd iu wassail. 
And cannot see the world but thro' their wines I 
Leave them I and thee too, Aldwyth, must I leave— 
Haish is the news ! hard is our lioneymooii ! 
Thy pardon. (Turinrj round to his attendants.) Break 

the banquet up Ye four! 

And thou, my carrier-pigeon of black news, 
Cram thy crop full, but come when thou art call'd. 

[Exit IIaeoi.u. 



ACT V. 



scene i.— a tent on a mound, from 
Which can be seen the field of 

SENLAC. 

llxnoLT), sittinfi ; hij him standing Hdgu Maegot the 

Mouk, GCBTU, LHOFWIN. 

Harold. Refer my cause, my crown to Rome! 

The wolf 
Mudded the brook, aud predetermined all. 
Monk, 

Thou hast said thy say, and had my constant "No" 
For all but instant battle. I hear uo more. 

Margot. Hear me again — for the last time. Arise, 
Scatter thy people home, descend the hill. 
Lay hands of full allegiance iu thy Lord's 
And crave his mercy, for the Holy Father 
Hath given this realm of England to the Norman. 

Harold. Then for the last time, monk, I ask again 
When had the Lateran and the Holy Father 
To do with England's choice of her own king? 

Margot. Earl, the first Christiau Ciesar drew to the 
East 
To leave the Pope dominion iu the West. 
He gave him all the kingdoms of the West. 

Harold. So !— did he?— E.irl — I have a mind to play 
The William with thine eyesight and thy tongue. 
Earl— ay — tliou art but a messenger of William. 
I am w'cary — go: make me not wroth with thee! 

Margot. Mock-king, I am the messenger of God, 
His Norman Daniel ! Mene, Mcue, Tekel ! 
Ts thy wrath hell, that I should spare to cry. 
You heaven is wroth with thee? Hear me again! 
Our Saints have moved the Church that moves the 

world, 
And all the heavens and very God: they heard— 
They know King Edward'.s promise and thine— thine. 

Harold. Should they not know free England crowns 
herself? 
Not know that he nor I had power to promise? 
Not know that Edward cancell'd his own promise? 
And for my part therein — Back to that juggler, 

(Rising) 
Tell him the Saints are nobler than he dreams. 
Tell him that God is nobler than the Saints, 
And tell him we stand arm'd on Senlac Hill, 
And bide the doom of God. 

Margot. Hear it thro' me. 

The reahn for which thou art forsworn is cursed, 
The babe enwomb'd and at the breast is cursed. 
The corpse thou whelmest with thine earth is cursed, 
'I'he soul who lighteth on thy side is cursed. 
The seed th(m sowest in thy field is cursed. 
The steer wherewith thou plowest thy field is cursed. 



The fowl that flcoth o'er thy field is cursed. 
And thou, usurper, liar— 

Harold. Out, beast monk I 

[IJ.fting his- hand to strike him. Gcura 
stnjjs the blow. 
I ever hated monks. 

Margot. I am but a voice 

Among you: murder, martyr me if ye will — 

Harold. Thauks, Gurth ! The simple, silent, self- 
less man 
Is worth a world of tonguesters. (To Margot.) Get 

thee gone ! 
He means the thing he say.=. See him out safe ! 

Leo/win. He hath blown himself as red as fire with 
curses. 
An honest fool ! Follow me, honest fool. 
But if thou blurt thy curse among our folk, 
I know not— I m;vy give that egg-bald head 
The tap that sileuces. 

Harold. See him out safe. 

lExennt Lkofwin and Maegot. 

Gurth. Thou hast lost thine even temper, brother 
Harold ! • 

Harold. Gurth, when I past by Waltham, my foun- 
dation 
For men who serve the neighbor, not themselves, 
I cast me down prone, praying; and, when I rose. 
They told me that the Holy Rood had lean'd 
And bow'd above me ; whether that which held it 
Had weaken'd, and the Rood itself were bound 
To that necessity which binds ns down ; 
Whether it bow'd at all but in their fancj' ; 
Or if it bow'd, whether it symbol'd ruin 
Or glory, who shall tell ? but they were sad, 
And somewhat sadden'd me. 

Gwtli. Yet if a fear, 

Or shadow of a fear, lest the strange Saints 
By whom thou swarest should have power to balk 
Thy puissance iu this fight with him who made 
And heard thee swear— brother— 7 have not sworn— 
If tlio King fall, may not the kingdom fall? 
But if I fall, I fall, and thou art King ; 
And if I win, I win, aud thou art King: 
Draw thou to London, there make strenglh to breast. 
Whatever chance, but leave this day to me. 

Leofwin (entering). And waste the land about thee 
as thou goest. 
And be thy hand as winter on the field. 
To leave the foe no forage. 

Harold. Noble Gurth ! 

Best son of Godwin ! If I fall, I fall— 
The doom of God ! How should the people fight 
When the King flies? And, Leofwin, art thou mad! 
How should the King of England waste the fields 



HAROLD. 



32; 



Of EiiyUuicl, his owu people ?— No glance yet 
Of the Northumbrian helmet ou the heath ? 

Li'o/win, No, but a shoal of wives upou the heath, 
And someone saw thy willy-nilly nun 
Vying a tress against our golden fern. 

Harold. Vying a tear with our cold dews, a sigh 
With these low -moaning heavens. Let her be 

fetch'd. 
We have parted from our wife without reproach, 
, Tho' we have dived thro' all her practices; 
And that is well. 

Leaf win. I saw her even now: 

She hath not left us. 

Harold. Nought of ^lorcar then ? 

GurtJi. Nor seen, nor heard ; thine, William's, or 
his own 
As wind blows, or tide flows: belike he watches. 
If this war-storm in one of its rough rolls 
Wash up that old crown of Northumberland. 

Harold. I married her for Morcar — a sin against 
The truth of love. Evil for good, it seems, 
Is oft as childless of the good as evil 
For evil. 

Leofwin. Good for good hath borne at times 
A bastard false as William. 

Harold. Ay, if Wisdom 

Pair'd not with Good. But I am somewhat worn, 
A snatch of sleep were like the peace of God. 
Gtirth, Leofwin, go once more about the hill— 
What did the dead man call it — Sanguelac, 
The Lake of Blood ? 

Leofwin. A lake that dips in William 

As well as Harold. 

Harold. Like enough. I have seen 

The trenches dug, the palisades uprear'd 
And wattled thick with ash and willow wands ; 
Yea, wrought at them myself. Go round once more; 
See all be sound and whole. No N(nMnan horse 
Can shatter England, standing shield by shield ; 
Tell that again to all. 

Gurth. I will, good brother. 

Harold. Our guardsman hath but toil'd his hand 

and foot, 

I hand, foot, heart and head. Some wine ! {One 

potirn loine into a goblet, which he hands to 

Harold.) Too much ! 

What? we inust use our battle-axe to-day. 

Our guardsmen have slept well, since we came in ? 

Leo/win. Ay, slept and snored. Your second-sight- 
ed man 
That scared the dying conscieuce of the King, 
Misheard their snores for groan.s. They are up again 
And chanting that old song of Brunanburg 
Where England conquer'd. 

Harold. That is well. The Norman, 

What is he doing ? 

Leofwin. Praying fm- Normandy; 

Our scouts have heard the tinkle of their bells. 

Harold. And our old songs are prayers for England 
too! 
But by all Saints— 

Leofwin. Barring the Norman ! 

Harold. Nay, 

W'ere the great trumpet blowing doomsday dawn, 
I needs must rest. Call when the Norman moves— 
[Exeunt all but nARoi.n. 
No horse— thousands of horses— our shield wall — 
Wall — break it not— break not— break— [Sleeps. 

i'ision of Edward. Son Harold, I thy King, who 
came before 
To tell thee thou shouldst win at Stamford-bridge 
Come yet once more, IVom where I am at peace. 
Because 1 loved thee in my mortal day, 
To tell thee thou shalt die ou Senlac hill — 
Sanguelac ! 

Visio7t of Widfnoth. O brother, from my ghastly 
oubliette 
I send my voice across the narrow seas- 



No more, no more, dear brother, nevermore — 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision of Tostig. O brother, most nnbrotherlike to 
me. 
Thou gavest thy voice against me in my life, 
I give my voice against thee from the grave — 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision of Xorman Saints. O hapless ILirokl ! King 
but for an hour ! 
Thou swarest falsely by our blessed bones, 
We give our voice against thee out of heaven ! 
Sanguelac! Sanguelac ! The arrow! the arrow! 

Harold (starting vj), battle-axe in hand). Away ! 
IMy battle-axe against your voices. Peace ! 
The King's last word — " the arrow !" I shall die — 
I die for England then, who lived for England— 
What nobler? men must die. 
I cannot fall into a falser world — 
I have done no man wrong. Tostig, poor brother. 
Art thou so anger'd ? 

Fain had I kept thine earldom in thy hands 
Save for thy wild and violent will that wiench'd 
All hearts of freemen from thee. I could do 
No other than this way advise the King 
Against the race of Godwin. Is it possi'ole 
That mortal meu should bear their earthly heats 
Into you bloodless world, and threaten us thence 
Unschool'd of Death ? Thus then thou art re- 
venged — 
I left our England naked to the South 
To meet thee in the North. The Norseman's raid 
Hath helpt the Norman, and the race of Godwin 
Hath ruin'd Godwin. No— our waking thoughts 
Suffer a stormless shipwreck in the pools 
Of sullen slumber, and arise again 
Disjointed: only dreams — where mine own self 
Takes part against myself! Why? fw a spark 
or self-disdain born in me when I sware 
Falsely to him, the falser Norman, over 
His gilded ark of mummy-saints, by whom 
I knew not that I sware,— not for myself— 
For England— yet not wholly— 

{Enter Edith.) 

Edith, Edith, 
Get thou into thy cloister as the King 
Wiird it: be safe: the perjury-mongering Count 
Hath made too good an use of Holy Church 
To break her close ! There the great God of truth 
Fill all thine hours with peace 1— A lying devil 
Hath haunted me— mine oath— my wife— I fain 
Had made my marriage not a lie; I could not: 
Thou art my bride ! and thou in after-years 
Praying perchance for this poor soul of mine 
In cold, white cells beneath an icy moon— 
This memory to thee !— and this to England, 
My legacy of war against the Pope 
From child to child, from Pope to Pope, from age 

to age, ^ 

Till the sea wash her level with her shores, 
Or till the Pope be Christ's. 

Enter Aldwytu. 

Aldicijth (to Edith). Away from him! 

Edith. I will I have not spoken to the King 

One word ; and one I must. Farewell ! [Going. 

Harold. Not yet. 

Stay. 

Edith. To what use? 

Harold. The King commands thee, woman ' 

{To Aldwyth). Have thy two brethren sent their forces 
in? 

Aldwyth. Nay, I fear, not. 

Harold. Then there's no force in thee! 

Thou didst possess thyself of Edward's ear 
To part me from the woman that I loved ! 
Thou didst arouse the fierce Northumbrians; 
Thou hast been false to England and to me 1 — 



326 



HAROLD. 



As in some sort I have been false to iliee. 

],eave me. No more— pardon on both sides. Go! 

Aldivyth. Alas, my lord, I love thee. 

Harold (hitterlij). With a love 

Passing thy love lor Griffyth ! wherefore now 
Obey my first and last commandment. Go! 

Ahlwyth. O Harold ! husband ! Shall we meet 
again ? 

Harold. After the battle— after the battle. Go. 

Aldwyth. I go. (Aside). That I conid stab her 
standing there! [Exit Aldwyth. 

Edith. Alas, my lord, she loved thee. 

Harold. Never ! never ! 

Edith. I saw it in her eyes ! 

Harold. I see it iu thine. 

And not on thee — nor England— fall God's doom I 

Edith. On theel on me. And thou art England I 
Alfred 
Was England. Ethelred was nothing. England 
Is but her King, and thou art Harold ! 

Harold. Edith, 

The sign in heaven— the sudden blast at sea— 
My fatal oath— the dead Saints — the dark dreams — 
The Pope'.s Anathema — the Holy Rood 
That bow'd to me at Waltham — Edith, if 
I, tho last English King of England— 

Edith. No, 

First of a line that coming from the people. 
And chosen by the people — 

Harold. And fighting for 

And dying for the people — 

Edith. Living ! living ! 

Harold. Yea so, good cheer I thou art Harold, I am 
Edith ! 
Look not thus wan ! 

Edith. What matters how I look ? 

Have we not broken Wales and Norselandf slain. 
Whose life was all one battle, incarnate war, 
Their giant-king, a mightier mau-iu-arms 
Than William. 

Harold. Ay, my girl, no tricks in him — 

No bastard he ! when all was lost, he yell'd, 
And bit his shield, and dash'd it on the ground. 
And swaying his two-handed sword about him, 
Two deaths at every swing, ran iu upon us 
And died so, and I loved him as I hate 
This liar who made me liar. If Hate can kill, 
And Loathing wield a Saxon battle-axe — 

Edith. Waste not thy might before the battle ! 

Harold. No, 

And thou must hence. Stigand will see thee safe. 
And so— farewell. [ffe is goinri, but turns back. 

The ring thou darest not wear, 
I have had it fashion'd, see, to meet my hand. 

[Haroi.d shows the ring xohich is on his 
finger. 
Farewell ! [He in going, but turns back again. 

I am dead as Death this day to aught of earth's 
Save William's death or niiue. 

Editfi. Thy death !— to-day ! 

Is it not thy birthday? 

Harold. Ay, that happy day ! 

A birthday welcome ! happy days and many ! 
One — this ! [They einbracc. 

Look, I will bear thy blessing into the battle 
And front the doom of God. 

yornian cries {heard in the distance). Ha Rou ! Ha 
Rou ! 

Enter Guutu. 

Gurth. The Norman moves ! 

Harold. Harold and Holy Cross! 

[Exeunt Hauoi.d and Gurtu. 

Enter Stiqand. 
Stigand. Our Church in arms— the lamb the lion— 
not 
Suear into pruning-hook — the counter -way- 
Cowl, helm; and crozier, battle-axe. Abbot Alfwig, 



Leofric, and all the monks of Peterboro' 
Strike for the King ; but I, old wretch, old Stigaud, 
With bauds too limp to brandish iron — and yet 
I have a power — would Harold ask me for it— 
I have a power. 

Edith. What power, holy father ? 

Stigand. Power now from Harold to command thee 
hence 
And see thee safe from Senlac. 

Edith. I remain ! 

Stigand. Yea, so will I, daughter, until I find 
Which way the battle balance. I can see it 
From where we stand : and, live or die, I would 
I were among them ! 

Canons from Waltham {singing uithout). 

Salva patriam 
Saucte Pater, 
Salva Fill, 
Salva Spiritus, 
Salva i)atrinm, 
Sancta Mater.* 

Edith. Are those the blessed angels quiring, fa- 
ther? 

Stigand. No, daughter, but the canons out of Walt- 
ham, 
The King's foundation, that have follow'd him. 

Edith. O God of battles, make their wall of shields 
Firm as thy cliffs, strengthen their palisades! 
What is that whirring sound? 

Stigand. The Norman arrow ! 

Edith. Look out ui)ou the battle— is he safe? 

Stigand. The King of England stands between his 
banners. 
He glitters on the crowning of the hill. 
God save King Harold ! 

Edith. —Chosen by his people 

And fighting for his people I 

Stigand. There is one 

Come as Goliath came of yore— he flings 
His brand in air and catches it again: 
He is chanting some old war-song. 

Edith. And no David 

To meet him? 

Stigand. Ay, there springs a Saxon on him, 

Falls— and another falls. 

Edith. Have mercy on ns ! 

Stigand. Lo ! our good Gurth hath smitten him to 
the death. 

Edith. So perish all the enemies of Harold ! 

Canons {singing). 

Hostis in Angliam 

Knit predator, 
Illorum, Domine, 

Scutum sciudatur ! 
Hostis per Anglife 

Plagas bacchatur ; 

Casa crematur, 

Pastor fugatur 

Grex trucidatur— 



Stigand. Illos trucida, Domine. 
Edith. 



Ay, good father. 



Canons {singing). 

Illornm scelera 
Poena sequatur! 

English Cries. Harold and Holy Cross I Out ! out I 
Stigand. Our javelins 

Answer their arrows. All the Norman foot 
Are storming up the hill. The range of knights 
Sit, each a statue on hie horse, and wait. 



• Ttie a tbroiighout these hyn 
' father." 



should be soundeJ brood, as in 



HAROLD. 



327 



English Cries. Harold :iud God Almighty ! 
Norman Cries. Ha Ituu ! Ha Ron ! 

Canons {si/ujinr/). 
Eques cum pedite 

Piiepediatuf! 
Illonim In lacrymas 

Cnior fmidaliu-l 
Pei'eant, peieant, 

Anglia piecatuf. 

Stigand. Look, daughter, look. 

Edith. Nay, father, look for mc ! 

Stigand. Our axes lighten with a single flash 
About the summit of the hill, and heads 
And arms are sliver'd off and splinter'd by 
Their lightning— and they fly — the Norman flies. 

Edith. Stigand, O father, have we won the day? 

Stigand. No, daughter, no — they fall behind the 
horse — 
Their horse are thronging to the barricades; 
I see the gonfanon of Holy Peter 
Floating above their helmets— ha! he is down! 

Edith. He down! Who down? 

Stigand. The Norman Count is down. 

Edith. So perish all the enemies of England! 

Stigand. No, no, he hath risen again— he bares his 
face- 
Shouts something — he points onward — all their horse 
Swallow the hill locust-like, swarming up. 

Edith. O God of battles, make his battle-axe keen 
As thine own sharp-dividing justice, heavy 
As thine own bolts that fall on crimeful heads 
Charged with the weight of heaven wherefrom they 
fall ! 

Canons (singing), 

Jacta tonitrua 

Deus bellator ! 
Surgas e tcnebris, 

Sis vindicator ! 
Fulmiun, fulmina 

Deus vastator ! 

Edith. O God of battles, they are three ro one. 
Make thou one man as three to roll them down ! 

Canons (singing). 
Equus cum equite 

Dejiciatur ! 
Acies, Acies 

Prona sternatur 1 
Illorum lauceas 

Frauge Creator ! 

Stigand. Yea, yea, for how their lances snap and 

shiver 
Against the shifting blaze of Harold's axe ! 
VVar-woodmau of old Woden, how he fells 
The mortal copse of faces ! There ! And there 
The horse and horseman cannot meet the shield. 
The blow that brains the horseman cleaves the 

horse ; 
The horse and horseman roll along the hill : 
I'hey fly once more, they fly, the Norman flies ! 

Equus cum equite 
Priecipitatur. 

Edith. O God, the God of truth hath heard my 
cry. 
Follow them, follow them, drive them to the sea ! 

Illorum scclera 
Pcena sequatnr ! 

Stigand. Truth! no; a lie; a trick, a Norman 
trick ! 
They turn on the pursuer, horse against foot, 
They murder all that follow. 

Edith. Have mercy on us ! 



Stigand. Hot-headed fools— to burst the wall oi 
shields ! 
They have broken the coramandmsnt of the King ! 

Edith. His oath was broken — O holy Normuu 
Saints, 
Ye that are now of heaven, and see beyond 
Your Norman shrines, pardon it, pardon it, 
That he forsware himself for all he loved, 
Me, me and all ! Look out upon the battle I 

Stigand. They thunder again upon the barricades. 
My sight is eagle, but the strife so thick— 
This is the hottest of it : hold, ash! hold, willow! 

English Ciics. Out, out ! 

Norvian Cries. Ha Ron ! 

Stigand. Ha! Gurth hath leapt upon hi;u 

And slain him : he hath fallen. 

Edith. And I am heard. 

Glory to God iu the Highest! fallen, fallen! 

Stigand. No, uo, his horse — he mounts another— t 
wields 
His war-club, dashes it on Gurth, and Gurth, 
Our noble Gurth, is down ! 

Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

Stigand. And Lnofwin is down ! 

Edith. Have mercy on us ! 

O Thou that knowest, let not my strong prayer 
Be weaken'd in thy sight, because I love 
Tlie husband of another ! 

Xorman Cries. ILi Ron ! Ha Ron I 

Edith. I do not hear our English war-cry. 

Stigand. No. 

Edith. Look out upon the battle — is he safe ? 

Stigand. He stands between the banners, with the 
dead 
So piled about him he can hardly move. 

Edith (takes up the war-erg). Out! out! 

Norman Cries. Ha Ron ! 

Edith (cries out). Harold and Holy Cross ! 

Norman Cries. Ha Ron! Ha Ron! 

Edith. What is that whirring sound f 

Stigand. The Norman sends his arrows up to heav- 
en, 
They fall on those within the palisade ! 

Edith. Look out upon the hill— is Harold there? 

Stigand. Sanguelac— Sangnelac— the arrow — the ar« 
row !— away ! 



SCENE II. 



FIELD OF THE DEAD. 
NIGHT. 



Aldwytd and Editu. 

Akhmjth. O Edith, art thou here? O Harold, Har- 
old— 
Our Harold— we sh.ill never see him more. 

Edith. For there was more than sister in my kiss, 
And so the saints were wroth. I cannot love them, 
For they are Norman saints— and yet I should— 
They are so much holier than their harlot's son 
With whom they play'd their game against the King ! 

Aldwyth. The King is slain, the kingdom over- 
thrown ! 

Edith. No matter ! 

Aldwijth. How no matter, Harold slain? — 

I cannot find iiis body. Oh, help me thou ! 

Edith, if I ever wrought against thee. 
Forgive me thou, and help me here ! 

Edith. No matter! 

Aldwyth. Not help mc, nor forgive me? 

Edith. So thou saidest. 

Aldwyth. I say it now, forgive me! 

Edith. Cross me not I 

1 am seeking one who wedded me in secret. 
Whisper! God's angels only know it. Hal 
What art thou doing here among the dead ? 
They are stripping the dead bodies naked yonder, 
And thou art come to rob them of their rings 1 



,328 



HAEOLD. 



Aldwijth. O Edith, Edith, I have lost botli crown 
Aud husbaud. 

Edith. So have I. 

Aldwijth. I tell thee, gii'l, 

I am seeking my dead Harold. 

Edith. And I mine ! 

The Holy Father strangled him with a hair 
Of Peter, and his brother Tostig helpt ; 
The wicked sister clapt her hands and laugh'd ; 
Then all the dead fell on him. 

Aldwijth. Edith, Edith— 

Edith. What was he like, this husband? like to 
thee? 
Call not for help from me. I knew him not. 
He lies not here : not close beside the standard. 
Here fell the truest, manliest hearts of England. 
Go further hence and find him. 

Aldwjth. She is crazed ! 

Edith. That doth not matter either. Lower the 
light. 
He must be here. 

Enter two Canons, Osoon and Atueleio, luith torches. 
They turn over the dead bodies and examiiii them as 
they pass. 

Osgnd. I think that this is Thurkill. 

Athelric. More likely Godric. 

Osgod. I am sure this body 

Is Alfwig, the King's uncle. 

Athelric. So it is ! 

No, no— brave Gurth, one gash from brow to knee ! 

Osgod. And here is Leofwin. 

Edith. Aud here is He ! 

Aldivijth. Harold? Oh no — nay, if it were — my 
God, 
They have so maim'd and murder'd all his face 
There is no man can swear to him. 

Edith. But one woman ! 

Look you, we never mean to part again. 
I have found him, I am happy. 
Was there not someone ask'd me for forgiveness ? 
I yield it freely, being the true wife 
Of this dead King, who never bore revenge. 

Enter Count William and William Malf.t. 

Williain. Who be these women ? And what body 

is this? 
Edith. Harold, thy better ! 

William. Ay, and what art thou? 

Edith. His wife I 

Malet. Not true, my girl, here is the Queen ! 

[Pointing out, Aldwytu. 
William {to Aldwyth). Wast thou his Queen? 
Aldwyth. I was the Queen of Wales. 

William. W^hy then of England. Madam, fear us 
not. 
{To Malet). Kuowest thou this other? 

Malet. When I visited England, 

Some held she was his wife in secret— some- 
Well — some believed she was his paramour. 

Edith. Norman, thou liest ! liars all of you. 
Your Saints aud all 1 / am his wife ! and she— 
For look, our marriage-ring! 

IShe draws it og the finger of Hakolt). 
I lost it somehow — 



I lost it, i)layiug with it when I was wild. 
That bred the doubt ! but I am wiser now.... 
I am too wise — Will none among yon all 
Bear me true witness — only for this once — 
That I have found it here again ? [She puts it on. 

And thou. 
Thy wife am I for ever and evermore. 

[Falls on tlie body ayid dies. 
William. Death ! — and enough of death for this 

one day. 
The day of Saint Calixtus, aud the day. 
My day, when I was born. 

Malet. And this dead King's, 

Who, King or not, hath kinglike fought and fallen, 
His birthday, too. It seems but yester-even 
I held it with him in his English halls, 
His day, with all his rooftree ringing "Harold," 
Before he fell into the snare of Guy ; 
When all men counted Harold would be king, 
And Harold was most happy. 

William. Thou art half English. 

Take them away ! 

Malet, I vow to build a church to God 
Here on this hill of battle ; let our high altar 
Stand where their standard fell where these two 

lie. 
Take them away, I do not love to see them. 
Pluck the dead woman off the dead man, Malet ! 
Malet. Faster than ivy. Must 1 hack her arms 

off? 
How shall I part them ? 

William. Leave them. Let them be ! 

Bury him aud his paramour together. 
He that was false in oath to me, it seems 
Was false to his own wife. We will not give him 
A Christian burial: yet he was a warrior, 
Aud wise, yea truthful, till that blighted vow 
Which God avenged to-day. 
Wrap them together in a purple cloak 
And lay them both upon the waste sea-shore 
At Hastings, there to guard the laud for which 
He did forswear himself— a warrior — ay. 
And but that Holy Peter fought for us. 
And that the false Northumbrian held aloof, 
And save for that chance arrow which the Saints 
Sliarpen'd and sent against him—who can tell? — 
Three horses had I slain beneath me : twice 
I thought that all was lost. Since I knew battle, 
And that was from my boyhood, never yet- 
No, by the splendor of God— have I fought men 
Like Harold and his brethren, and his guard 
Of English. Every man about his King 
Fell where he stood. They loved him : and, pray God 
My Normans may but move as true with ine 
To the door of death. Of one self-stock at tirst, 
Make them again one people— Norman, English; 
And English, Norman ; — we should have a hand 
To grasp the world with, and a foot to stamp it 
Plat. Praise the Saints. It is over. No more 

blood ! 
I am King of England, so they thwart me not. 
And I will rule according to their laws. 
{I'o Aldwyth). Madam, we will entreat thee with all 

honor. 
Aldwyth. My punishment is more than I can bear. 




POEMS, 

BY TWO BROTHERS/ 

[ALFRED AND CHARLES TENNYSON.] 
" Hkc nos novimus esse nihil." — Martial. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The following Poems were written from the ages of fifteen to eighteen, not conjointly, but 
individually ; which may account for their difference of style and matter. To light upon any 
novel combination of images, or to open any vein of sparkling thought untouched before, were 
no easy task ; indeed, the remark itself is as old as the truth is clear; and, no doubt, if submit- 
ted to the microscopic eye of periodical criticism, a long list of inaccuracies and imitations would 
result from the investigation. But so it is : we have passed the Rubicon, and we leave the rest 
to fate ; though its edict may create a fruitless regret that we ever emerged from " the shade," 
and courted notoriety. 

March, 1827. 



'Tis sweet to lead from stnge to stage. 

Like infancy to a maturei- age, 

The fleeting thoughts that crowd quick F;incy's 

view. 
And the coy image into form to woo; 
Till all its charms to life and shape awake, 
Wrought to the finest polish they can take : 
Now out of sight the crafty Proteus steals. 
The mind's quick emissaries at his heels. 
Its nature now a partial light reveals. 
Each moment's labor, easier than before. 
Embodies the illusive image more ; 
Brings it more closely underneath the eye, 
And lends it form and palpabilitj'. 
What late in shadowy vision fleeted by. 
Receives at each essay a deepening dye ; 
Till diction gives us, modell'd into song. 
The fiiiry phantoms of the motley throng; 
Detaining and elucidating well 
Her airy embryos with binding spell; 
For when the mind reflects its image true- 
Sees its own aim — expression must ensue ; 
If all but language is supplied before, 
She quickly follows, and the task is o'er. 
Thus when the hand of pyrotechnic skill 
Has stored the spokes of the fantastic wheel, 
Apply the flame— it spreads as is design'd. 
And glides and lightens o'er the track defined; 
Unerring on its faithful pathway burns, 
Searches each nook, and tracks its thousand 

turns ; 



The well-flll'd tubes in flexile flame arrays. 
And fires each winding of the pregnant maze; 
Feeding on prompt materials, spurns delay. 
Till o'er the whole the lambent glories play. 
I know no joy so well deserves the nam?, 
None that more justly may that title claim, 
Thau that of which the poet is possess'd 
When Avarm imagination fires his breast, 
And countless images like claimants throng. 
Prompting the ardent ecstasy of song. 
He walks his study in a dreaming mood. 
Like Pythia's priestess panting with the god; 
His varying brow, betraying what he feels. 
The labor of his plastic mind reveals: 
Now roughly fiirrow'd into anxious storms. 
If with much toil his lab'ring lines he forms; 
Now brightening into triumph as, the skein 
LTnravelling, he cons them o'er agai,n. 
As each correction of his favorite piece 
Confers more smoothness, elegance, or ease. 

Such are the sweets of song — and in this age. 

Perchance too many in its lists engage; 

And they who now would fain awake the lyre, 

May swell this supernumerary choir: 

But ye, who deign to read, forget t" apply 

The searching microscope of scrutiny: 

Few from too near inspection fail to lose. 

Distance on all a mellowing haze bestows; 

And who is not indebted to that aid 

Which throws his failures into welcome shade? 



* London : Printed for W. Simpkin, and IS. MarshaU. Stationers-haU Court : and J. and J. Jackson, Louth. MDCCCXXVII. 



330 



STANZAS.— "IN EARLY YOUTH I LOST MY SIRE."— MEMORY. 



POEMS. 



STANZAS. 

Yon star of eve, so soft and clear, 
Beams mildly from the realms of rest; 

And, sure, some deathless anj^el there 
Lives in its light supremely blest: 

Yet if it be a spirit's shrine, 

I think, my love, it must be thine. 

Oh ! if in happier worlds than this 
The just rejoice— to thee is «;iv'u 

To taste the calm, undying bliss 
Eternally in that blue heav'n. 

Whither thine earnest soul would flow, 

While yet it liiiger'd here below. 

If Beauty, Wit, and Virtue find 
lu heav'n a more exalted throne, 

To thee such glory is assign'd. 
And thou art matchless and alone: 

Who lived on earth so pure— may grace 

la heav'n the brightest seraph's place. 

For tho' on earth thy beauty's bloom 
Blush'd in its spring, and faded then. 

And, mourning o'er thine early ttmib, 
I weep thee still, but weep in vain ; 

Bright was the transitory gleam 

That cheer'd thy life's short wav'ring dream. 

Each youthful rival may confess 
Thy look, thy smile, beyond compare. 

Nor ask the palm of loveliness. 
When thou wert more than doubly fair: 

Yet ev'n the magic of that form 

Drew from thy miud its loveliest charm. 

Be thou as the immortal are, 

Who dwell beneaili their God's own wing; 
A spirit of light, a living star, 

A holy and a searchless thing: 
But oh ! forget not those who mourn. 
Because thou canst no more return. 



"IN EARLY YOUTH I LOST MY SIRE. 

"Hinc milu prima mali labca." — VIROIL. 

In early youth I lost my sire, 
That fost'ring guide, wliich all require. 
But chief iu youth, when passion glows, 
And, if uncheclc'd, to frenzy grows, 
The fountain of a thousand woes. 
To flowers it is an hurtful thing 
To lose the sunshine in the spring; 
Without the sun they cannot bloom, 
^ And seldom to perfection come. 

E'en so my soul, tliat might liave borne 

The fruits of virtue, left forlorn. 

By every blast of vice was torn. 

Why lowers my brow, dost thou enquire? 

Why burns mine eye with feverish tire? 

With hatred now, and now with ire? 

In early youth I lost my sire. 



From this I date whatever vice 
Has uumb'd my feelings into ice ; 
From this — the frown upon my brow ; 
From this— the pangs that rack me now. 
My wealth, I can with safety say. 
Ne'er bought me one uniuflled day. 
But only wore my life away. 
The i)runing-knife ne'er lopp'd a bough; 
My passions spread, and strengtheu'd too. 
The chief of these was vast ambition, 

That long'd with eagle-wing to soar; 
Nor ever soften'd in contrition, 

Tho' that wild wing were diench'd iu gore. 
And other passions play'd their part 
On stage most lit— a youthful heart; 
Till fiir beyond all hope I fell, 
A play-thing for the fiends of hell— 
A vessel, tost upon a deep 
Whose stormy waves would never sleep. 
Alas ! when virtue once has flown, 
We need not ask why peace is gone: 
If she at times a moment play'd 
With bright beam on my mind's dark shade, 
I knew the rainbow soon would fade ! 
Why thus it is, dost thou enquire? 
Why bleeds my breast with tortures dire? 
Loathes the rank earth, yet soars not higher? 
In early youth I lost viy sire. 



MEMORY. 

** The ittemoiy is perpetually looking back when we have noth- 
ing present to entertain us : it is like those repositories in animals 
that are filled with stores of food on which they may ruminate 
when their present pasture fails." — ADDISON. 

Memory I dear enchanter ! 

Why bi'ing back to view 
Dreams of youth, wliich banter 

All that e'er was true ? 

Why present before me 

Thoughts of years gone by, 
Which, like shadows o'er me. 

Dim in distance fly? 

Days of youth, now shaded 

By twilight of long years. 
Flowers of youth, now faded. 

Though bathed in sorrow's tears: 

Thoughts of youth, which waken 

Mournful feelings now. 
Fruits which time halh shaken 

From oflf their parent bough: 

Memory ! why, oh why. 

This fond heart consuming, 
Show me years gone by, 

When those hopes were blooming? 

Hopes which now are parted, 

Hopes which then I prized, 
Wliich this world, cold-hearted, 

Ne'er has realized? 



YES— THERE BE SOME GAY SOULS WHO NEVER WEEP." 



331 



I knew not then Its strife, 

I knew not then its rancor; 
III every rose of life, 
. Alas ! there lurks a canker. 

Round every palm-tree, springin<;- 
With brijrht fruit in the waste, 

A mournful asp is clinging, 
Which sours it to our taste. 

O'er every fountain, pouring ^ 

Its waters thro' the wild, 
Which man imbibes, adoring. 

And deems it uudetiled. 

The poison-shrubs are dropping 
Their dark dews day by day ; 

And Care is hourly lopping 
Our greenest boughs away ! 

Ah ! these are thoughts that grieve me 

Then, when others rest. 
Memory ! why deceive me 

By thy visions blest? 

Why lift the veil, dividing 

The brilliant courts of spring- 
Where gilded shapes are glidiug 
In fairy coloring — 

From age's frosty mansion. 

So cheerless and so chill? 
Why bid the bleak expansion 

Of past life meet us still? 

Where's now that peace of mind 
O'er youtli's pure bosom stealiug, 

So sweet and so refined, 
So exquisite a feeling ? 

Where's now the heart exulting 
In pleasure's buoyant sense, 

And gaiety, resulting 
From conscious innocence ? 

All, all have past and fled, 
And left me lorn and Imiely; 

All those dear hopes are dead, 
Remembrance wakes them only ! 

I stand like some lone tower 

Of former days remaining, 
Within whose place of power 

The midnight owl is plaining;— 

Like oak-tree old and gray. 
Whose trunk with age is failing. 

Thro' whose dark boughs fen- aye 
The winter winds are wailing. 



Thus, Memory, thus thy light 
O'er this worn soul is gleaming 

Like some far fire at night 
Alone 



0-' 

Like some lai mc: m ui^ul 

the dun deep streaming. 



"YES— THERE BE SOME GAY SOULS 
WHO NEVER WEEP." 

" O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
Ducentium ortus ex aniniti." 

Gray's roemata. 

Yes — there be some gay souls who never weep, 
And some who, weeping, hate the tear they shed ; 

But sure in them the heart's fine feelings sleep, 
And all its loveliest attributes are dead. 



For oh ! to feel it swelling to the eye, 
When melancholy thoughts have sent it there, 

Is something so akin to ecstasy. 
So true a balm to misery and care, 

That those are cold, I ween, who cannot feel 
The soft, the sweet, the exquisite control, 

Which tears, as down the moisten'd cheek thev 
steal. 
Hold o'er the yielding empire of the soul. 

They soothe, they ease, and they refine the breast, 
And blunt the agonizing stings of grief. 

And lend the tortured mind a healing rest, 
A welcome opiate, and a kind relief. 

Then, if the jjow'r of woe thou wouldst disarm. 
The tear thy burning wounds will geutly close; 

The rage of grief will sink into a calm. 
And her wild frenzy find the wish'd repose. 



"HAVE YE NOT SEEN THE BUOYANT 
ORB?" 

"A bubble 

Tliat in the act of seizing shrinks to naught." 

Clahe. 

Have ye not seen the buoyant orb, which oft 

The tube and childhood's playful breath produce? 
Fair, but impalpable— it mounts aloft, 

While o'er its surface rove the restless hues ; 
And sun-born tints their gliding bloom diftuse: 

But 'twill not brook the touch — the vision bright. 
Dissolved with instantaneous burst, we lose; 

Breaks the thin globe with its array of light 
And shrinks at once to naught, at contact e'er so ■ 
slight. 

So the gay hopes we chase with ardent zeal — 

Which view'd at distance to our gaze appear 
Sweetly embodied, tangible, and real — 

Elude our grasp, and melt away to air: 
The test of touch too delicate to bear, 

In unsubstantial loveliness thy glow 
Before our wistful eyes, too passing fair 

For earth to realize or man to know, , 

Whose life is but a scene of fallacy and woe. 



THE EXILE'S HARP. 

I WILL hang thee, my harp, by the side of the fount- 
ain. 
On the whispering branch of the lone-waving wil- 
low : 
Above thee shall rush the hoarse gale of the mount- 
ain, 
Below thee shall tumble the dark breaking billow. 
The winds shall blow by thee, abaudon'd, forsaken. 
The wild gales alone shall arouse thy sad strain ; 
For where is the heart or the hand to awaken 
The sounds of thy soul-soothing sweetness again? 
Oh ! harp of my lathers ! 
Thy chords shall decay. 
One by one with the strings 
Shall thy notes fade away ; 
Till the fiercest of tempests 

Around thee may yell, 

And not waken one sound 

Of thy desolate shell ! 

Yet, oh ! yet, ere I go, will I fling a wreath round 
thee. 
With the richest of flowei-s iu the green valley 
springing; 



332 



WHY SHOULD WE WEEP FOR THOSE WHO DIE ?"— REMORSE. 



Those that see s^hall remember the hand that hath 
crown'd thee, 
When, wilher'd and dead, to thee still they are 
clinging. 
There I now I have wreathed thee — the roses are 
twining 
Thy chords with their bright blossoms glowing 
and red : 
Though the lapse of one day see their freshness 
declining, 
Yet bhiom for one day when thy minstrel has 
fled ! 
Oh ! harp of my fathers ! 

No more in the hall, 
The sonls of the chiefrains 
Thy strains shall enthral: 
One sweej) will I give tliee, 
And wake thy bold swell; 
Then, thou friend of my bosom, 
Forever farewell ! 



"WHY SHOULD WE WEEP FOR THOSE 
WHO DIE?" 

" Quamobrem, 6i dolorum flnom mors affert. si seourioris et me- 
lioris initium vitK : si futura mala aveitit— cur earn tantopere ac- 
cusare, ex qua potius cousolationem et la;titiam haui-ire fas csset ?" 

ClCEItO. 

WnT should we weep for those who die? 

They fall— their dust returns to dust; 
Their souls shall live eternally 

Within the mansions of the just. 

They die to live— they sink to rise. 
They leave this wretched mortal shore; 

But brighter suns and bluer skies 
Shall smile on them foreverinore. 

Why should we sorrow for the dead? 

Our life on earth is but a span; 
They tread the path that all nmst tread. 

They die the common death of man. 

The noblest songster of the gale 
Must cease, when Winter's frowns appear; 

The reddest rose is wan and pale. 
When Autumn tints the changing year. 

The fairest flower on earth must fade. 
The brightest hopes on earth must die: 

Why should we monrn that man was made 
To droop on earth, but dwell on high? 

The soul, th' eternal soul, must reign 
In worlds devoid of pain and strife; 

Then why should mortal man complain 
Of death, which leads to happier life? 



RELIGION! THO' WE SEEM TO 
SPURN." 

" Sublatam ex oculis quaerimus." — HOKACi:. 

Remoion ! tho' we seem to spurn 

Thy hallow'd joys, their loss we monrn. 

With many a secret tear ; 
Tho' we have long dissolved the tie. 
The hour wc broke it claims a sigh, 

And Virtue still is dear. 

Our hearts forget not she was fair. 
And her pure feelings, ling'ring there, 
Half win us back from ill; 



And — tho' so long to Vice resign'd 
'Twould seem we've left her far behiud- 
Pursue and hanut us still. 

Thus light's all-penetrating glow 
Attends us to the deeps below, 

With wav'ring, rosy gleam : 
To the bold inmates of the bell 
Faint rays of distant sunlight* steal, 

And thro' the waters beam. 

By the rude blasts of passion tost. 
We sigh for bliss we ne'er had lost. 

Had Conscience been our guide; 
She burns a lamp we need not tiim, 
Whose steady flame is never dim, 

But throws its lustre wide. 



REMORSE. 

*' Sudant tacita pra^cordia culpa." — .TuvKXAL, 

Ou ! 'tis a fearful thing to glance 

Baclv on the gloom of misspent years: 
What shadowy forms of guilt advance, 

And till me with a thousand fears I 
The vices of my life arise, 

Portray'd in shapes, alas! too true; 

And not one beam of hope breaks thrcngti, 
To cheer my old and aching eyes, 
T' illume my night of wretchedness 
My age of anguish and distress. 
If I am damn'd, why And I not 
Some comfort in this earthly spot? 
But no ! this world and that to come 
Are both to me one scene of gloom ! 
Lest ought of solace I should see. 

Or lose the thoughts of what I do, 
Remorse, with sonl-felt agony, 

Holds up the mirror to my view. 
And 1 was cursed from my birth, 
A reptile made to creep on earth. 
An hopeless outcast, born to die 
A living death eternally ! 
With too ranch conscience to have rest, 
Too little to be ever blest. 
To yon vast world of endless woe, 

Unlighted by the cheerful day. 

My soul shall wing her weary way ; 
To those dread depths where aye the same 
Throughout the waste of darkness, glow 

The glimmerings of the boundless flame. 
And yet I cannot here below 
Take my full cup of guilt, as some. 
And laugh away my doom to come. 
I would I'd been all-heartless ! then 
I might have sinn'd like other men ; 
But all this side the grave is fear, 
A wilderness so dank and drear. 
That never wholesmue plant would spring; 

And all behind— I dare not think ! 
I would not risk th' imagining— 

From the full view my spirits shrink; 
And starting backwards, yet I cling 
To life, whose every hour to me 
Hath been increase of misery. 
But yet I cling to it. for well 

I know the pangs that rack me now 
Are trifles, to the endless hell 

That waifs me, when my burning brow 
And my wrung eyes shall hope in vain 
For one small drop to cool the pain. 
The fury of that madd'ning flame 
That then shall scorch my writhing frame : 



» A vermeil color plays on the hands and faces of those wha 
descend in this machine. 



■ON GOLDEN EVENINGS, WHEN THE SUN."— MY BROTHER. 



333 



Fiends! who li:ive goaded ine to ill! 
Disti'iicliug lieiids, who i;oad me still! 
If e'er I woik'd ;i sinful deed, 

Ye know how bitter was the draught; 
Ye know my inmost soul would bleed, 

And ye have iook'd at ine and laugh'd 
Triumphing that I could not free 
My spirit from your slavery ! 
Yet is there that in me which says. 

Should these old feet their course retread 
From out the portal of my days, 

That I should lead the life I've led: 
My agony, my torturing shame. 
My guilt, my errors all the same! 
O God! that thou wouldst grant that ne'er 

My soul its clay-cold bed forsake, 

That I might sleep, and never wake 
Unto the thrill of conscious fear; 

For wheu the trumpet's piercing cry 
Shall burst upon my slumb'ring ear. 

And countless seraphs throng the sky, 
How shall I cast my shroud away, 
And come into the blaze of day? 
How shall I brook to hear each crime, 
Here veil'd by secrecy and time, 
Read out from thine eternal book? 

How shall I stand before thy throne. 
While earth shall like a furnace burn? 
How shall I bear the w-ith'ring look 
Of men and angels, who will turn 

Their dreadful gaze on me alone? 



ON GOLDEN EVENINGS, WHEN TOE 

SUN." 

*'Tlie bliss to meet. 
And the pain to part !"— MOORE. 

On golden evenings, wheu the sun 

In splendor sinks to rest, 
How we regret, when they are gone, 

Those glories of the west. 
That o'er the crimson-mantled sky 
Threw their broad flush of deepest dye ! 

But when the wheeling orb again 

Breaks gorgeous on the view, 
Aud tints the earth and fires the maiu 

With rich aud ruddy hue, 
Vfe soon forget the eve of sorrow. 
For joy at that more brilliant morrow. 

E'en so wheu much-loved friends depart. 

Their farewell rends the swelling heart; 

But wheu those friends again we see, 

We glow with soul-felt ecstasy, 

That far exceeds the tearful feeling 

That o'er our bosoms then was stealing. 

The rapture of that joyous day 

Bids former sorrows fade away ; 

And Memory dwells no more on sadness 

Wheu breaks that sudden morn of gladness'. 



THE DELL OF E . 

'* fantum a;vi longinqua valet niutare vetustas I" 

Vmr.lL. 

TiiF.RE was a long, low, rushy dell, emboss'd 
With knolls of grass aud clumps of copsewood 
green ; 

.Midway a wandering burn the valley cross'd, 
.\ud streak'd with silvery line the woodland sciiiie; 



High hills on either side to heaven upsprung, 

Y-clad with groves of undulating pine. 
Upon whose heads the hoary vapors hung. 

And far — far off the heights were seen to shine 
In clear relief against the sapphire sky. 

And many a blue stream wander'd thro' the shade 
Of those dark groves that clomb the mountains high, 

And glistening 'neath each lone entangled glade. 
At length with brawling accent loudly fell 
Within the limpid brook that wound along the dell. 
Ilow pleasant was the ever-varying light 
Beneath that emerald coverture of boughs ! 
How often, at th' approach of dewy night. 
Have those tall pine-trees heard the lover's vows '. 
How many a name was carved upon the trunk 
Of each old hollow willow-tree, that stoop'd 
To lave its branches in the brook, aud drunk 
Its freshening dew! How many a cypress droop'd 
From those fair banks, where bloom'd the earliest 

flowers. 
Which the young year from her abounding horn 
Scatters profuse within her secret bowers! 
What rapturous gales from that wild dell were 

borne ! 
And, floating on the rich spring breezes, fluug 
Their incense o'er that wave ou whose bright bauks 
they sprung ! 

Long years had past, and there again I came. 

But man's rude hand had sorely scathed the dell ; 
And though the clond-capt mountains, still the same, 

Uprear'd each heaven-invading pinnacle; 
Yet were the charms of that lone valley fled, 

Aud the gray winding of the stream was gone; 
The brook once murmuring o'er its pebbly bed, 

Now deeply— straightly — noiselessly went ou. 
Slow turu'd the sluggish wheel beneath its force. 

Where clattering mills disturbed the solitude: 
Where was the prattling of its former course? 

Its shelving, sedgy sides y-crowu'd with wood ? 
The willow trunks were feil'd, the names erased 
From one broad shatter'd pine which still its sta- 
tion graced. 

Remnant of all its brethren, there it stood, 

Braviug the storms that swept the cliff's above, 
Where once, throughout th' impenetrable wood. 

Were heard the plainings of the pensive dove. 
But man had bid th' eternal forests bow 

That bloom'd upou the earth-imbedded base 
Of the strong mountain, and perchance they now 

Upou the billows were the dwelling-place 
Of their destroyers, and bore terror round 

The trembling earth:— ah! lovelier had they still 
Whisper'd unto the breezes with low sound. 

And greenly flourish'd ou their native hill. 
And flinging their proud arms in state on high. 
Spread out beneath the sun their glorious cauopy ! 



MY BROTHER. 

" Meorum prime soJaliiini."— IIOi:ACE. 

With falt'ring step I came to see, 
In Death's unheeding apathy. 
That friend so dear in life to me. 

My brother ! 

'Mid flowers of loveliest scent and hue 
That strew'd thy form, 'twas sad to view 
Thy lifeless face peep wanly through. 

My brother ! 

Why did they (there they did not feel !) 
With studious care all else conceal, 
But thy cold face alone reveal. 

My brother ! 



334 



"I WANDER IN DARKNESS AND SORROW." 



They might have known, what used to glow 
With smiles, and ol't tlispeU'd my woe, 
Would chill me most, when faded so, 

My brother I 

The tolling of thy funeral bell. 

The nine low notes that spoke thy knell, 

I know not how 1 bore so well, 

My brother ! 

But oh ! the chill, dank mould that slid, 
Dilll-sounding, on thy coflSu-lid, 
Thai drew more tears than all beside. 

My brother ! 

And then I hurried fast away ; 
How could I e'er have borne to stay 
Where careless baud iuhumed thy clay. 

My brother ! 



ANTONY TO CLEOPATRA. 

O Cleopatra 1 fare thee well. 

We two can meet uo more ; 
This breaking heart alone can tell 

The love to thee I bore. 
But wear not thou the conqueror's chain 

Upon thy race and thee ; 
And though we ne'er cau meet again, 

Yet still be true to me: 
For I for thee have lost a throne, 
To wear the crown of love aloue. 

Fair daughter of a regal line! 

To thraldom bow not tame ; 
My every wish on earth was thine, 

My every hope the same. 
Aud I have moved within thy sphere. 

And lived within thy light; 
And oh ! thou wert to me so dear, 

I breathed but in thy sight! 
A subject world I lost for thee, 
For thou wert all my world to me ! 

Then when the shriekiugs of the dying 

Were heard along the wave. 
Soul of my soul I I saw thee flying; 

I foUow'd thee, to save. 
The thunder of the brazen prows 

O'er Actium's ocean rung; 
Fame's garland faded from my brows, 

Iler wreath away I flung. 
I sought, I saw, I heard but thee: 
For what to love was victory? 

Thine on the earth, and on the throne, 

And in the grave, am I; 
And, dying, still I am thine own, 

Thy bleeding Antony. 
Uow shall my spirit joy to hear 

That thou art ever true ! 
Nay — wec]) not— dry that burning tear. 

That bathes thine eyes' dark hue. 
Shades of my fathers ! lo '. I come ; 
I hear your voices from the tomb ! 



"I WANDER IN DARKNESS AND 
SORROW." 

I WANDER in darkness and sorrow. 

Unfriended, and cold, and alone. 
As dismally gurgles beside me 

The bleak river's desolate moau. 



The rise of the volleying thunder 

The mountain's lone echoes repeat: 
The roar of the wind is around me. 

The leaves of the year at my feet. 

I wander in darkness and sorrow, 

Uncheer'd by the moon's placid ray ; 
Not a friend that I lov'd but is dead. 

Not a hojjc but has faded away! 
Oh ! when shall I rest in the tomb. 

Wrapt about with the chill winding-sheet? 
For the roar of the wind is around me, 

The leaves of the year at my feet. 

I heed not the blasts that sweep o'er me, 

I blame not the tempests of night ; 
They are not the foes who have banish'd 

The visions of youthful delight: 
I hail the wild sound of their raving. 

Their merciless presence I greet; 
Though the roar of the wind be around me, 

The leaves of the year at my feet. 

In this waste of existence, for solace. 

On whom shall my lone spirit call? 
Shall I fly to the friends of my bosom ? 

My God ! I have buried them all ! 
They are dead, they are gone, they are cold, 

My embraces no longer they meet ; 
Let the roar of the wind be around me. 

The leaves of the year at my feet ! 

Those eyes that glanced love unto mine. 

With motionless slumbers are prest ; 
Those hearts which once throbb'd but for me. 

Are chill as the earth where they rest. 
Then around on my wan wither'd form 

Let the pitiless hurricanes beat; 
Let the roar of the wind be around me, 

The leaves of the year at my feet 1 

Like the voice of the owl in the hall. 

Where the song and the banquet have ceased. 
Where the green weeds have mantled the hearth. 

Whence arose the proud flame of the feast; 
So I cry to the storm, whose dark wing 

Scatters on me the wild-driving sleet— 
" Let the roar of the tvind be around me, 

The fall of the leaves at vty feet /" 



TO ONE WHOSE HOPE REPOSED ON 
TIIEE." 



*' She's gone 

She's sunk, with lier my jo 



To one whose hope reposed on thee. 
Whose very life was in thine own. 

How deep a wound thy death must be. 
And the wild thought that thou art gone ! 

Oh! must the earth-born reptiles prey 
Upon that cheek of late so blooming? 

Alas ! this heart must wear away 
Long ere that cheek they've done cousurainj 

For hire the sexton toU'd thy bell- 
But why should he receive a meed 

Who work'd at lea-st no mortal's weal. 
And made one lonely bosom bleed? 

For hire with ready mould he stood— 
But why should gain his care repay 

Who told, as harshly as he could. 
That all I loved was past away ? 



THE OLD SWORD.— "WE MEET NO MORE." 



33i 



For, sure, it was too nule a blow 

For Misery's ever-walvefiil ear, 
To cast tlie earth with siuldeii throw 

Upou the grave of one so dear: 

For aye these bitter tears must swell, 
Tho' the sad scene is past and gone; 

And still I hear the tolling bell, 
For Memory makes each sense lier own. 

But stay, my sonl ! thy plaint forbear, 
•And be thy nuirm'ring song forgiven ! 

Tread but the path of Virtue here. 
And thou slialt meet with her iu heaven! 



THE OLD SWORD. 

Olt> Sword ! tho' dim and rusted 

Be now thy sheeny blade. 
Thy glitt'ring edge eucrusted 
With cankers Time hath made: 
Yet once around thee swell'd the cry 

Of triumph's lierce delight, 

The shoutings of the victory, 

The thunders of the tight ! 

Tho' age hath past upon thee 
With still corroding hreath. 
Yet once stream'd redly ou thee 
The purpling tide of death: 
■\Vh:it time amid the war of foes 
The dastard's cheek grew pale, 
As through the feudal lield arose 
The ringing of the mail. 

Old Sword ! what arm hath wielded 

Thy richly gleaming brand, 
'Mid lordly forms who shielded 
The maidens of their laud ? 
Aud who hath clov'u his foes in wrath 

With thy puissant tii'e. 
And scalter'd in his perilous path 
The victims of his ire ? 

Old Sword ! whose fingers clasp'd thee 

Around thy carved hilt? 
And with that hand which grasp'd thee 
Wliat heroes' blood was spilt; 
When fearlesslj', with open hearts, 

And lance to lance oi)posed. 
Beneath the shade of barbed darts 
The dark-eyed warriors closed? 

Old Sword ! I would not burnish 

Thy venerable rust. 
Nor sweep away the tarnish 
Of darkness and of dust ! 
L'.e there, in slow and still deca}', 

Unfamed iu olden rhyme, 
The relic of a former day, 
A wreck of ancient lime! 



THE GONDOLA. 

" 'Tis sweet to hear 
At niiduisht, o'er the blue and mooiiUt deep, 
The sonj and oar of Adria's gondulier." 

Doll Juan. 

O'eu ocean's curling surges borne along, 
Arlon sung— the dolphin caught the strain. 

As soft the mellow'd accents of his tongue 
Stole o'er the surface of the watery plain. 
22 



And do those silver sounds, so deep, so clear. 
Possess less magic than Arion's lay? 

Swell they less boldly on the ravish'd ear. 
Or with less cadence do they die away? 

Yon gondola, that skims the moonlight sea, 
Yields me those notes more wild than Houri't; 
lyre, 

That, as they rise, exalt to ecstasy, 
Aud draw the tear as, leugth'ning, they expire. 

An arch of purest azure beams above, 
A sea, as blue, as beauteous, spreads below; 

In this voluptuous clime of song and love 
What room for sorrow? who shall cherish woe? 

False thought! tho' pleasure wing the carelcsfc 
hours. 

Their stores tho' Cyprus and Arabia send, 
Tho' for the ear their fascinating power 

Divine Timotheus and Cecilia blend; — 

All without Virtue's relish fail to please, 
Venetian charms the cares of Vice alloy, 

Joy's swiftest, brightest current they can freeze, 
Aud all the genuine sweets of life destroy ! 



"W^E MEET NO MORE." 

Wb meet no more— the die is cast, 
The chain is broke that tied us, 

Our every hope on earth is past. 
And there's no helm to guide us : 

We meet no more— the roaring blast 
Aud angry seas divide us ! 

And I stand on a distant shore. 
The breakers round me swelling; 

Aud lonely thoughts of days gone o'er 
Have made this breast their dwelling 

We meet no more— We meet no more: 
Farewell forever, Ellen ! 



WRITTEN 
BY AN EXILE OF BASSORAH, 

WHILE SAILING DOWN THE EUPHIIATES. 

Til .u land of the lily! thy gay flowers are bloom- 
ing 
In joy ou thine hills, but they bloom not for me ; 
For a dark gulf of woe, all my fond hopes entomb- 
ing. 
Has roll'd its black waves 'twixt this lone heart 
aud thee. 

The far -distant hills, and the groves of my child- 
hood. 
Now stream in the light of the sun's setting ray; 
And the tall-waving palms of my own native wild- 
wood 
In the blue haze of distance are melting away. 

I see thee, Bassorah ! iu splendor retiring, 
Where thy waves aud thy walls in their majesty 
meet ; 

I see the bright glory thy pinnacles firing, 
Aud the broad vassal river that rolls at thy feet. 

I see thee but faintly- thy tall towers are beainiu^' 
On the dusky horizon so far aud so blue; 



33G 



IMARIA TO HER LUTE.— THE VALE OF CONES. 



And minaret and mosque iu the distance are gleam- 
ing, 
While the coast of the stranger expands on my 
view. 

I see tbee no more: for the deep waves have parted 

The laud of my birth from her desolate sou ; 
And I am gone from thee, though half brokeu- 
hearted, 
To wander thro' climes where thy name is un- 
known. 

Farewell to my harp, which I hung in my anguish 
On the lonely paluietto that nods to the gale ; 

For its sweet -breathing tones iu forgetfulness lan- 
guish. 
And around it the ivy shall weave a green veil. 

Farewell to the days which so smoothly have glided 
With the maiden whose look was like Cama's 
young glance, 
And the slieen of whose eyes was the load -star 
which guided 
My course on this earth thro' tlie storms of mis- 
chance ! 



MARIA TO HER LUTE, 

TITK GIFT OF HI£R DYING I.OVER. 

*' O laborum 
Uulce leuimen !"— IIOIIACE. 

I LOVE thee, Lute ! my soul is link'd to thee 
As by somo tie— 'tis not a groundless love ; 

I cannot rouse thy plaintive melody, 
And fail its magic influence to prove. 

I think I found thee more than ever dear 
(If thought can work within this fever'd brain) 

Since Edward's lifeless form was buried here, 
And I deplored his hapless fate in vain. 

'Twas then to thee my strange affection grew, 
For thou wen his — I've heard hiia wake thy 
strain: 

Oh! if in heaven each other we shall view, 
I'll bid him sweep thy mournful chords again. 

I would not change thee for the noblest lyre 
That ever lent its music to the breeze: 

IIow could Maria taste its note of tire? 
How wake a harmony that could not please? 

Then, till mine eye shall glaze, and cheek shall fade, 
I'll keep thee, prize thee as my dearest friend ; 

And oft ril hasten to the green-wood shade. 
My hours in sweet, tho' fruitless grief to spend. 

For in the tear there is a nameless joy ; 

The full warm gush relieves the aching soul: 
So still, to ease my hopeless agony, 

My lute shall warble and my tears shall roll. 



THE VALE OF BONES. 

"Albis informeiii— ossibus ngrmii."— IIOHA 

Ai.oxo yon vapor-mantled sky 
The dark-red moon is riding high; 
At times her beams in beauty break 
Upon the broad and silv'ry lake ; 
At times more bright they clearly fall 
Ou some white castle's ruiu'd wall ; 
At times her partial splendor shines 
Upon the grove of deep-black pines, 



Tlirongh which the dreary night.-brecze moflus, 
Above this Vale of scatter'd bones. 

The low, dull gale can scarcely stir 
Tlie branches of that black'ning fir, 
Which betwixt me and heav'n Uings wide 
Its shadowy boughs on either side. 
And o'er yon granite rock uprears 
Its giant form of many years. 
And the shrill owlet's desolate wail 
Comes to mine ear along the gale, 
As, list'ning to its lengthen'd tones, 
I dimly pace the Vale of Bones. 

Dark Valley! sli!l the same art thou. 
Unchanged tliy mountain's cloudy brow; 
Still from yon clifls, that part asunder, 
Falls down the torrent's echoing thunder; 
Still from this mound of reeds and rushes 
With bubbling sound the fountain gushes; 
Thence, winding thro' the whisp'ring ranks 
Of sedges on the willowy banks, 
Still brawling, chafes the rugged stones 
That strew this dismal Vale of Bones. 

Unchanged art thou ! no storm hath rent 
Thy rude and rocky battlement ; 
Thy rioting mountains sternly piled, 
Tlie screen of nature, wide and wild : 
But who were they whose bones bestrew 
The heather, cold with midnight dew, 
Upon whose slowly-rotting clay 
The raven long hath ceased to prey. 
But, mould'ring in the moonlight air, 
Their wan, white sculls show bleak and bare? 
And, aye, the dreary night-breeze moans 
Above them in this Vale of Bones ! 

I knew them all— a gallant band, 
The glory of their native land. 
And on each lordly brow elate 
Sat valor and contempt of fate, 
Fierceness of youth, and scorn of foe. 
And pride to render blow for blow. 
In the strong war's tumultuous crash 
How darkly did their keen eyes flash ! 
How fearlessly each arm was raised ! 
How dazzlingly each broad-sword blazed ! 
Tliough now the dreary night-breeze moans 
Above them iu this Vale of Bones. 

What lapse of time shall sweep away 
The memory of that gallant day, 
When on to battle proudly going. 
Your plumage to the wild winds blowing. 
Your tartans far behind ye flowing. 
Your pennons raised, your clarions sounding. 
Fiercely your steeds beneath ye bounding, 
Ye mix'd the strife of warring foes 
In fiery shock and deadly close? 
What stampings in the madd'ning strife, 
What thrusts, what stabs, with brand and knife. 
What desp'rate strokes for death or life. 
Were there ! What cries, what thrilling groans. 
Re-echoed thro' the Vale of Bones ! 

Thon peaceful Vale, whose mountains lonely 
Sound to the torrent's chiding only, 
Or wild goat's cry from rocky ledge. 
Or bull-frog from the rustling sedge, 
Or eagle from her airy cairn. 
Or screaming of the startled hern- 
How did thy million echoes wakeu 
Amid thy caverns deeply shaken ! 
How with the red dew o'er thee rain'd 
Thine emerald turf was darkly stain'd ! 
How did each innocent flower, that sprung 
Thy greenly-tangled glades among. 



TO FANCY.— "DID NOT THY ROSEATE LIPS OUTVIE." 



Blush with the big and purple drops 

That dribbled from the leafy copse! 

I paced the valley, when the yell 

Of triumph's voice had ceased to swell ; 

When battle's brazen throat no more 

Kaised its annihilating roar. 

There lay yc on each other piled, 

Your brows with noble dust defiled;* 

There, by the loudly-gushing water, 

Lay mau and horse in mingled slaughter. 

Then wept I not, thrice gallant baud ; 

For though no more each dauntless hand 

Tlie thunder of the combat hurl'd, 

Yet still with pride your lips were curl'd ; 

And e'en in death's o'erwhelmiiig shade 

Your lingers liuger'd round the blade ! 

I decm'd, when gazing proudly there 

Upon the tix'd and haughty air 

That niark'd each warrior's bloodless face, 

Ye would not change the narrow space 

Which each cold form of breathless clay 

Then cover'd, as on earth ye lay. 

For realms, for sceptres, or for thrones— 

I dream'd not on this Vale of Bones ! 

But years have thrown their veil between, 
And aller'd is that lonely scene; 
And dreadful emblems of thy might, 
Stern Dissolution! meet my sight: 
The eyeless socket, dark and dull, 
The hideous grinning of the skull, 
Are sights which ^lemory disowns. 
Thou melancholy Vale of Bones ! 



TO FANCY. 

Bright angel of heavenliest birth ! 

Who dwellest among us unseen. 
O'er the gloomiest spot on ihe earth 

There's a charm where thy footsteps have been. 
We feel thy soft sunshine in youth. 

While our joys like young blossoms are new ; 
For oh ! thou art sweeter than Truth, 

And fairer and lovelier too ! 

The exile, who monrneth alone, 

Is glad in the glow of thy smile, 
Tho' far from the land of his own, 

In the ocean's most desolate isle : 
And the captive, who pines in his chain. 

Sees the banners of glory unroll'd. 
As he dreams of his own native plain, 

And the forms of the heroes of old. 

In the earliest ray of the morn, 

In the last rosy splendor of even. 
We view thee— thy spirit is borne 

On the murmuring zephyrs of heaven : 
Tliou art in the sunbeam of noon, 

Thou art in the azure of air. 
If I pore on the sheen of the moon, 

If I search the bright stars, thou art there ! 

Thou art in the rapturous eye 

Of the bard, when his visions rush o'er him ; 
And like the fresh iris on higli 

Are the wonders that sparkle before him. 
Thou stirrest the thunders of song, 

Tliose transports that brook not control ; 
Tliy voice is the charm of his tongue. 

Thy magic the light of his soul ! 

Like the day-star that heralds the sun. 
Thou seem'st, when our young hopes are dawning 

* "Xon indecoro pulvere sordidos." — HonACE. 



But ah ! when the day is begun. 

Thou art gone like the star of the moruinr 
Like a beam in the winter of years. 

When the joys of existence are cold. 
Thine image can dry up our tears. 

And brighten the eyes of the old ! 

Tho' dreary and dark be the night 

Of affliction that gathers ar.ound. 
There is something of heaven in thy light. 

Glad spirit! where'er thou art found: 
As calmly the sea-maid may lie 

In her pearly pavilion at rest, 
The heart-broken and friendless may fly 

To the shade of thy bower, and be blest ! 



BOYHOOD. 



"All, happy years 



who would not be a boy 1" 

Childe Harold. 



Boyuood'b blest hours ! when yet unfledged and cal- 
low, 

We prove those joys we never can retain, 
In riper years with fond regret we hallow. 

Like some sweet scene we never see again. 

For youth — whate'er may be its petty woes. 
Its trivial sorrows — disappointments — fears, 

As on in haste life's wintry current flows- 
Still claims, and still receives, its debt of tears. 

Yes! when, in grim alliance, grief and time 
Silver our heads and rob our hearts of ease, 

We gaze along the deeps of care and crime 
To the far, fading shore of youth and peace ; 

Each object that we meet the more endears 
That rosy morn before a troubled day ; 

That blooming dawn — that sunrise of our years— 
That sweet voluptuous vision past away ! 

For by the welcome, tho' embittering power 
Of wakeful memory, we too well behold 

That lightsome— careless— unretiu-ning hour. 
Beyond the reach of wishes or of gold. 

And ye, whom blighted hopes or passion's heat 
Have taught the pangs that care-worn hearts en- 
dure, 

Ye will not deem the vernal rose so sweet! 
Ye will not call the driven snow so pure ! 



"DID NOT THY ROSEATE LIPS. OUT- 
VIE." 

" UUa si juris tibi ppjerati 
Pcena, IJarine, noculsset unquam; 
Denti si nigro fieres, vel uno 

Turpior uugui 
Crederem."— Horace. 

Did not thy roseate lips outvie 

The gay anana's spicy bloom ;* 
Had not thy breath the luxury. 

The richness of its deep perfume- 
Were not tlie pearls it fans more clear 

Than those which grace the valved shell ; 
Thy foot more airy than the deer, 

When startled from his lonely dell— 

* Ulloa says that the blossom of the West-Indian anana is of 
so elegant a crimson as even to dazzle the eye, and that the fra- 
g-rancy of the fruit discovers the plant, though concealed froa 
sight.— See ULLOA'S Voyages, vol. i., p. 72. 



338 



HUXTSMAN'S SONG.— PERSIA. 



Were Dot thy bosom's stainless whiteness, 

Wheie angel loves their vigils keep. 
More heavenly than the dazzling brightness 

Of the cold crescent on the deep- 
Were not thine eye n star might grace 

You sapphire concave beaming clear, 
Or fill the vanish'd Pleiad's place, 

And shine for aye as brightly there- 
Had not thy locks the golden glow 

That robes the gay and early east, 
Thus falling in luxuriant flow 

Around thy fair but faithless breast : 

I might have deem'd that thon wert she 
Of the Cuinsean cave, who wrote 

Each fate-involving mystery 
Upon the feathery leaves that float, 

Borne thro' the boundless waste of aii-, 
Wherever chance might drive along. 

But she was wrinkled — thou art fair: 
And she was old — but thou art young. 

Her years were as the sands that strew 
The fi'etted ocean-beach; but thou — 

Triumphant in that eye of bine. 
Beneath thy smoothly-marble brow; 

Exulting in thy form thus moulded. 
By nature's teuderest touch desigu'd; 

Proud of the fetters thou hast folded 
Around this fond deluded mind — 

Deceivest still with practised look, 
With fickle vow, and well-feign'd sigh. 

I tell thee, that I will not brook 
Reiterated perjury ! 

Alas ! I feel thy deep control, 

E'en now when I would break thy chain : 
But while I seek to gain thy soul, 

Ah '. say — hast thou a soul to gain ? 



HUNTSMAN'S SONG. 

" Wlio tlie melodies of morn can tell ?"— Beattie. 

Ou ! what is so sweet as a morning in spring, 
When the gale is all freshness, and larks, ou the 

wing, 
In clear liquid carols their gratitude sing ? 

I rove o'er the hill as it sparkles with dew, 
And the red flush of Phoebus with ecstasy view, 
As he t)reaks thro' the east o'er thy crags, Benvenue ! 

And boldly I bound o'er the mountainous scene, 
Like the roe which I hunt thro' the woodlands so 

green, 
Or the torrent which leaps from the height to the 

plain. 

The life of the hunter is chainless and gay. 

As the wing of the falcon that wins him his prey; 

No song is so glad as his blithe roundelay. 

His eyes in soft arbors the Moslem may close, 
And Fayoum's rich odors may brcatlie from the 

rose, 
To scent his bright harem and lull his repose: 

Th' Italian may vaunt of his sweet harmony. 
And mingle soft sounds of voluptuous glee; 
But the lark's airy music is sweeter to me. 



Then happy the man who upsprings with the morn, 

But not from a couch of eft'eminate lawn. 

And slings o'er his shoulder his loud bugle-horn I 



PERSIA. 

" The flower and choice 
Of many provinces from bound to Ijound." 

MiLTOX. 

Lam> of bright eye and lofiy brow! 

Whose every gale is balmy breath 
Of incense from some sunny flower, 
Which ou tall hill or valley low. 

In clustering maze or circling wreath, 
Sheds perfume; or iu blooming bower 
Of Schiraz or of Ispahan, 
In bower untrod by foot of man, 
Clasps round the green and fj-agrant stem 

Of lotos, fair and fresh and blue, 
And crowns it with a diadem 

Of blossoms, ever young and new ; 
Oh ! lives there yet within thy soul 

Aught of the fire of him who led 
Thy troops, and bade thy thunder roll 

O'er lone Assyria's crowuless head ? 

I tell thee, had that conqueror red 

Prom Thymbria's plain beheld thy fall, 
VVhen stormy Macedonia swept 

Thine honors from thee one and all. 
He would have wail'd, he would have wept, 
That thy proud spirit should have bow'd 
To Alexander, doubly proud. 
Oh, Iran ! Iran ! had he known 
The downfall of his mighty throne, 
Or had he seen that fatal night, 

When the young king of Macedou 

In madness led his veterans on, 
And Thais held the funei-al light, 
Around that noble pile which rose 

Irradiant with the pomp of gold. 

In high Persepolis of old, 
Encompass'd with its frenzied foes; 
He would have groan'd, he would have spread 
The dust upon his laurell'd head, 
To view the setting of that star, 
Which beam'd so gorgeously and far 
O'er Anatolia and the fane 
Of Belus, and Caister's plain. 

And Sardis, and the glittering sands 

Of bright Pactolus, and the lands 
Where Croesus held his rich domain: 
On fair Diarbeck's land of spice,* 
Adiabene's plains of rice, 
Where down th' Euphrates, swift and strong, 
The shield-like kuphars bound along ;t 
And sad Cuuaxa's field, where, mixing 

With host to adverse host opposed, 
'Mid clashing shield and spear transfixing, 

The rival brothers sternly closed. 
And further east, where, broadly roll'd, 
Old Indus pours his stream of gold ; 
And there where, tumbling deep and hoarse. 
Blue Ganga leaves her vaccine source ;t 
Loveliest of all the lovely streams 
That meet immortal Titan's beams, 
And smile ui)on their fruitful way 
Beneath his golden Orient ray: 
And southward to Cilicia's shore, 
Where Cydnus meets the billows' roar, 



* Xenophon says that every shrub in these Avilds had an aro- 
matic odor. 

t Renncl on Herodotus. 

i The cavern in the ridge of Ilimmalah, -whence the Gan-^PR 
seems to derive its orifrinal sprinprs, has been moiUded, by the 
mind of Hindoo sujierstilion, into the liead of u cow. 



EGYPT.— THE DRUID'S PROPHECIES. 



And where the Syrian ^iites diviile 
The meeting reahiis on cither side ;* 
E'en to the land of Nile, whose crops 

Bloom rich beneath his bountcons swell, 

To hot Syene'8 wondrous well. 
Nigh to the long-lived /Ethiops. 
And northward far to Trebizonde, 

Kenown'd for kings of cliivalry. 
Near where old Ilyssns, rolling from the straud, 

Disgorges in the Euxine Sea— 
The Euxine, falsely named, which whelms 

The mariner iu the heaving tide, 
To high Sinope's distant realms, 

Whence cynics rail'd at human pride. 



EGYPT. 

" Egypt's palmy Rroves, 
Her grots, and sepulchres of kiug^s/' 

MOOKE'S Lalla Rmkh. 

The sombre pencil of the dim-gray dawn 
Diaws a faint sketch of Egypt to mine eye, 

As yet nncolor'd by the brilliant morn, 
And her gay orb careering up the sky. 

And see I at last he comes in radiant pride. 
Life iu his eye, and glory iu his ray; 

No veiling mists his growing splendor hide, 
Aud hang their gloom around his golden way. 

The flowery region brightens in his smile. 
Her lap of blossoms freights the passing gale. 

That robs the odors of each balmy isle, 
Each fragrant field and aromatic vale. 

But the first glitter of his rising beam 
Falls on the broad-based pyramids sublime, 

As proud to show us with his earliest gleam 
Those vast and hoary enemies of Time. 

E"en History's self, whose certain scrutiny 
Few eras iu the list of Time beguile, 

Pauses, and scans them with astonish'd eye, 
As unfamiliar with their aged pile. 

Awful, august, magnificent, they tower 
Amid the waste of shifting sands around ; 

The lapse of year and month and day and hour. 
Alike nul'clt, perform th' unwearied round. 

How often hath yon day-god's burning light. 
From the clear sapphire of his stainless heaven, 

Bathed their high peaks iu uooulide brilliance 
bright. 
Gilded at morn, and purpled them at even It 



THE DRUID'S PROPHECIES.^ 

Mona! with flame thine oaks are streaming. 
Those sacred oaks we rear'd on high : 

Lo ! Mona, lo ! the swords are gleaming 
Adowu thine hills confusedly. 

Hark! Mona. hark ! the chargers' neighing! 

The clang of arms and helmets bright '. 
The crash of steel, the dreadful braying 

Of trumpets thro' the madd'ning fight ! 

* Sec Xenophon'9 " Expeditio Cyri." 

t See Savary's letters. 

X " Stabat pro littore diversa acies, densa armis virisque, inter- 
cursantibus feniinis in moduin Furiarum, quie veste ferali, crinibus 
dejectis, faces pra:!fercbant. Druida-que circum, preces diras, subla- 
tis ad coelum manibus, fundeutes," etc.— TACIT., .<4n/io/., xiv., c. 30. 



Exalt your torches, raise your voices ; 

Your thread is spun— your day is brief ; 
Yea ! howl for sorrow ! Rome rejoices, 

But Moua— Moua bends iu grief! 

But woe to Rome, though now she raises 
You eagles of her haughty power ; 

Though now her sun of conquest blazes, 
Yet soon shall come her darkening hour ! 

Woe, woe to him who sits in glory, 
Enthroned ou thine hills of pride! 

Can he not see the poignard gory 
With his best heart's-blood deeply dyed ? 

Ah ! what avails his gilded palace. 
Whose wings the seveu-hill'd town enfold?" 

The costly bath, the crystal chalice? 
The pomp of gems, the glare of gold? 

See where, by heartless anguish driven, 
Crownless he creeps 'mid circling thorus ;t 

Around him flash the bolts of heaven, 
Aud angry earth before him yawus.t 

Then, from his pinnacle of splendor, 
The feeble king,§ with locks of gray. 

Shall fall, and sovereign Rome shall render 
Her sceptre to the usurper'sll sway. 

Who comes with sounds of mirth aud gladness, 
Triumphing o'er the prostrate deadJIF 

Ay, me ! thy mirth shall change to sadness, 
When Vengeance strikes thy guilty head. 

Above thy noonday feast suspended, 
High hangs iu air a naked sword : 

Thy days are gone, thy joys are ended, 
The cup, the song, the festal board. 

Then shall the eagle's shadowy pinion 
Be spread beneath tlie eastern skies;** 

And dazzling far with wide dominion. 
Five brilliant stars shall brightly rise.tt 

Then, coward kingitt the helpless aged 
Shall bow beneath thy dastard blow; 

But reckless hands and hearts, enraged, 
By double fate shall lay thee low.§§ 

And two.llll with death-wounds deeply mangled, 
Low ou their parent earth shall lie ; 

Fond wretches ! ah ! too soon entangled 
Withiu the snares of royalty. 

Tlien comes that mighty one victorious 
In triumph o'er this earthly ball.HII 



* Pliny says tliat the golden palace of Nero extended all round 
the city. 

t " Ut ad diverticulum ventum est, dimissis equis inter fruticcta 
ac vepres, per arundineti semitam iegre, nee nisi strata sub pedibus 
veste, ad adversum villiE parieteni ev&sit."— Sl'ETOPf., Vit. Omar. 

X Stalimque tremore terrx, et fulgure adverso pavefactus, audlit 
ex proximis castris clamorem," etc. — Ibid, 

§ C.alba. II Otho. 

It "Utque campos, in quibus pugnatum est, adiit [i. e., Vitellius] 
plurimum meri propalam hausit," etc. — SUKTOX. 

** At the siege of Jerusalem. 

+t The five good emperors : Ncrva, Trajan, Adrian, Antoninus 
Pius, and Marcus Aurelius, or Antoninus the Philosopher. Perhaps 
the best commentary on the life and virtues of the last is his own 
volume of " Meditations." 

Ji " Dobiles pedibus, et eos. qui ambulare non possent, in gigantum 
modum, ita ut a genibus do pannis et linteis quasi dracones il'ise- 
rei-entur ; eosdemque sagittis confecit." — ^L. LASirniD. in Vila 
Comm. Such were the laudable amusements of Commodus : 

§§ lie was first poisoned ; but the operation not fully answering 
the wishes of his beloved, he was afterward strangled by a robust 
wrestler. 

Ill Pertinax and Didius Julian. 

tIF Severus, who ivas equally victorious in the Eastern and West- 



340 



LINES.— EXPEDITION OF NADIR SHAH INTO HINDOSTAN. 



Exulting in his conquests glorious — 
Ah! glorious to his country's fall! 

But thon Shalt sec the Romans flying, 
O Albyul with yon danntless ranks;* 

And thou shalt view the Romans (lying, 
Blue Carun ! on thy mossy banks. 

But lo ! what dreadful visions o'er me 

Are bursting on this aged eye ! 
What length of bloody train before mc 

111 slow succession passes by !t 

Thy hapless mouarchs fall together, 
Like leaves in winter's stormy ire ; 

Some by the sword, and some shall wither 
By lightning's flame and fever's fire.t 

They come! they leave their frozen regions. 
Where Scandinavia's wilds extend; 

And Rome, though girt with dazzling legions, 
Beneath their blasting power shall bend. 

Woe, woe to Rome! though tall and ample 
She rears her domes of high renown ; 

Yet tiery Goths shall fiercely trample 
The grandeur of her temples down ! 

She sinks to dust; and who shall pity 
Her dark despair and hopeless groans? 

There is a wailing in her city — 
Her babes are dash'd against the stones! 

Then, Monal then, though wan and blighted 
Thy hopes be now by Sorrow's dearth, 

Then all thy wrongs shall be requited — 
The Queen of Nations bows to earth ! 



LINES. § 

Tnn eye must catch the point that shows 
Tlie pensile dew-drop's twinkling gleam, 

Where on the trembling blade it glows, 
Or hueless hangs the liquid gem. 

Thus do some minds unmark'd appear 
By aught that's generous or divine, 

Unless we view them in the sphere 
Where with their fnllest light they shine. 

Occasion — circumstance — give birth 
To charms tliat else unheeded lie, 

And call the latent virtnes forth 
To break upon the wond'iing eye. 

E'en he yonr censure has enroll'd 
So rashly with the cold and dull, 

Waits but occasion to unfold 
An ardor and a force of soul. 

Go then, impetuous youth, deny 
The presence of the orb of day, 

Because November's cloudy sky 
Transmits not his resplendent raj*. 



cm World : but those conquests, however gl(»rious, were conducive to 
the ruin of the Uoman Empire.— See GlUBON, vol. vi.,chap.v., p. 203. 

* In allusion to tlie real or feigned victory obtained by Kingal over 
Caracul, or Caracalla.— See OssiAN. 

t Very few of the emperors after Severus escaped oss.assination. 

t Macriuus, Ileliogabalus, Alexander, Maxiuiin Tupienus, Balbi- 
nus, Gordian, Philip, etc., were assassinated ; Cl.Audius died of a 
pestilential fever ; and Carus was struck dead by li);htnin;; in his 
tent. 

§ To one who entertained a light opinion of an eminent character, 
becaus.' too impatient to wait for its gradual develo]imcnt. 



Time, and the passing throng of things, 
Full well the mould of minds betray, 

And each a clearer prospect brings: — 
Suspend thy judgment for a day. 



SWISS SONG. 

I i.ovE St. Gothard's head of snows, 

That shoots into the sky, 
Where, yet unform'd, in grim repose 

Ten thousand avalanches lie. 

I love Lucerne's transparent lake, 

And Jura's hills of pride, 
Whence infant rivers, gushing, break 

With small and scanty tide. 

And thou, Mont Blanc! thou mighty pils 

Of crags and ice and snow ; 
The Gallic foes in w^onder smile 

That we should love thee so ! 

But we were uurst within thy breast, 
And taught to brave thy storms: 

Thy tutorage was well confest 
Against the Frank in arms — 

The Frank who basely, proudly came 

To rend us from our home, 
With flashing steel and wasting flame. — 

How could he, dare he come? 



THE EXPEDITION OF NADIR SIIAII 
INTO HINDOSTAN. 

*'Quoi ! vous allez conibattre un roi, dout la puissance 
Send)le forcer le ciel de prendre sa defense. 
Sous qui toute I'Asie a vu tonibcr ses rois 
Et qui tlent la fortune attaehee a sos lois !" 

lf.\cixi:'s Ahiaiidre. 
"Squallent populatibus aj^ri." 

CLAUDIAN'. 

As the host of the locusts in numbers, in might 
As the flames of the forest that redden the night, 
They approach : but tlie eye may not dwell on the 

glare 
Of standard and sabre that sparkle in air. 

Like the fiends of destruction they rush on their way, 
The vulture behind them is wild for his prey; 
And the spirits of death, and the demons of wrath, 
Wave the gloom of their wings o'er their desolate 
path. 

Earth trembles beneath them, the dauntless, the bold ; 
Oh ! weep for thy children, thou region of gold ;* 
For thy thousands are bow'd to the dust of the plain, 
And all Delhi runs red with the blood of her slain. 

For thy glory is past, and thy splendor is dim, 
And the cup of thy sorrow is full to the brim ; 
And where is the chief in thy realms to abide, 
The "Monarch of Natious,"t the strength of his 
pride ? 



* This invader required as a ransom fur Molmmmod Shah no less 
than thirty millions, and amassed in the rich city of Delhi the enor- 
mous sum of two Innidred and thirty-one millions sterling. Others, 
however, differ considerably in their account of this treasure. 

t Such pompous epithets the Oriental >\'riters ar^? accustomed to 
bestow on their monarchs ; of which sufficient specimens may be 
seen in Sir William .Tones's translation of the " History of Nadir 
Shah." We can scarcely read one iiage of this work without meet- 
ing with such sentences as these : " Lc roi des rois ;" " Les <tuudm-ds 



GREECE.— THE MAID OF SAVOY.— MIDNIGHT. 



3il 



Like ii tliousaiirl dark stre:ims from the mouiitaiii 

they tlirons:, 
With the tile aud the horn and tlic war- beating 

gong: 
The hind like an Eden before them is fair, 
)3ut behind them a wilderness dreary and bare.* 

The shrieks of the orphan, the lone widow's wail, 
The groans of the childless, are lond on the gale ; 
For the star of thy glory is blasted and wan, 
And wither'd the flower of thy fame, Hindostau ! 



GREECE. 



" EsDritur clamorque virum, clan^orquii tubarum." 

VlIIGIL. 

What wakes the brave of yon isle-throng'd wave' 

And why does the trnmpet bray? 
And the tyrant groan on his gory throne, 

lu fear aud wild dismay ? 

Why, he sees the hosts around his coasts 

Of those who will be free; 
And lie views the bands of trampled lands 

111 a, dreadful league agree. 

"Revenge!" they call, "for one, for all — 

In the page of song and story 
Be their name erased, and ours replaced 

lu all its pristine glory ! 

"Too long in pain has Slavery's chain 

Our listless limbs encumber'd ; 
Too long beneath her freezing breath 

Our torpid souls have slumber'd. 

"But now we rise — the great, the wise 

Of ages past inspire us ! 
Oh I what could inflame our love of fame. 

If that should fail to fire us ? 

" Let Cecrops' town of old renown 

Her bands and chieftains muster ; 
With joy unsheathe the blade of death, 

Aud crush the foes who crush'd her! 

"We come, we come, with trump and drnm. 

To smite the hand that smote us. 
And spread I he blaze of freedom's rays 

From Athens to Eurotas !" 



THE MAID OF SAVOY. 

Down Savoy's hills of stainless white 

A thousand currents run, 
And sparkle bright in the early light 
Of the slowly-rising sun : 
But brighter far, 
Like the glance of a star 
From regions above. 
Is the loolv of love 
lu the eye of the Maid of Savoy ! 

Down Savoy's hills of lucid suow 
A thousand roebucks leap, 



qui subjujruent le monde ;" "L'ame rayonnaiito de 8a inajest6 :" 
"I,e rayonnaiit monarque du moiide ;" " Sa majesty cnnqu^rante 
du ninnile ;" etc. 

* " The land is as the Garden of E Jon before them, anj beliind 
tham a desolate wilderness."— i/o«;. 



And headlong they go when the bugles blow, 
And sound from steep to steep: 
But lighter far, 
Like the motion of air 
On the smooth river's bed. 
Is the noiseless tread 
Of the foot of the Maid of Savoy! 

lu Savoy's vales, with green array'd, 

A thousand blossoms flower, 
'Neath the odorous shade by the larches made, 
In their own ambrosial bower: 
But sweeter still, 
Like the cedars which rise 
On Lebanon's hill 
To the pure bhie skies, 
Is the breath of the Maid of Savoy ! 

In Savoy's groves full merrily sins 

A thousand songsters gay. 
When the breath of spring calls them forth on the 
wing. 
To sport in the sun's mild ray : 
But softer far. 
Like the holy song 
Of angels in air, 
When they sweep along, 
•Is the voice of the Maid of Savoy 1 



IGNORANCE OF MODERN EGYPT. 

D.vy's genial beams expand the flowers 
That bloom in Damietta's bowers ; 
Beneath the night's descending dew 
They close those leaves of finest hue: 
So Science droops in Egypt's land, 
Beneath the Turkish despot's hand; 
The damps of Ignorance and Pride 
Close ni) its leaves, its beauties hide: 
The morrow's rays her flowers may woo — 
Is there no ray for Science too? 



MIDNIGHT. 

'Tto midnight o'er the dim mere'a lonely l)osom. 

Dark, dusky, windy midnight: swift are driven 
The swelling vapors onward: every blossom 

Bathes its bright petals in the tears of heaven. 
Imperfect, half-seen objects meet the sight. 

The other half our fancy must portray ; 
A wan, dull, lengthen'd sheet of swimming light 

Lies the broad lake: the moon conceals her ray, 
Sketch'd faintly by a pale and lurid gleam 

Shot thro' the glimmering clouds : the lovely 
planet 
Is shrouded in obscurity ; the scream 

Of owl is silenced; and the rocks of granite 
Rise tall and drearily, while damp and dank 
Hang the thick willows on the reedy bank. 
Beneath, the gurgling eddies slowly creep, 

Blacken'd by foliage ; and the glutting wave. 
That saps eternally the cold gray steep, 

Sounds heavily within the hollow cave. 
All earth is restless— from his glossy wing* 

The heath-fowl lifts his head at intervals; 

Wet, driving, rainy, come the bursting squalls; 
All nature wears her duu dead covering. 
Tempest is gather'd, and the brooding storm 
Spreads its lilack mantle o'er the mouutaiu's form; 



* Tlie Gucccedins lines are a paraiihrase orOssian. 



;342 



"IN 8Ui\LAIER, WHEN ALL NATURE GLOWS."— SONG. 



And, miiiEjled with the rising roar, is swelling, 
From the fur hunter's booth, the bluod-houud's yell- 
ing, 
The -water-fulls in vnrinns cadence cbimin<r. 
Or in one loud unbroken sheet descending, 

Sahite each other thio' the night's dark womb; 
The moaning pine-ticcs to the wild blast bend- 
ing, 
Are pictured faintly thro' the cheqner'd gloom; 
The forests, half-way up the mountain climbing, 
Itesound with crash of falling branches ; quiver 

Their aged mossy trunks: the ^3Iarlled doe 
Leaps from her leafy lair: the swelling river 
Winds his broad stream majestic, deep, and slow. 



IN SUMMER, WHEN ALL NATURE 
GLOWS." 

*' Xature in every form inspires delight."- -COwrElI. 

In summer, when all nature glows, 
And lends its fragrance to tlie rose, 
And tints the sky with deeper blue, 
And coi)ious slieds the fruitful dew; 
AVheu odors come with every gale, 
And nature liolds her carnival; 
When all is bright and pure and calm. 
The smallesc herb or leaf can charm 
The man whom nature's beauties warm. 

The glitt'riug tribes of insects gay. 
Disporting in their parent-ray, 
Each full of life and careless joj'. 
He views with philosopliic eye: 
For well he knows the glorious Hand, 
That bade th' eternal mountains stand. 
And spread the vast and heaving main, 
And studded heaven's resplendent plain. 
Gave life to nature's humbler train. 

Nor less admires his miirhty pow'r 
In the fine organs of a lliw'r, 
Than when he bids the thunder roll, 
Rebellowing o'er the stormy pole ; 
Or launches fortli his bolts of fire 
Ou the lost objects of his iie ; 
Or with the yawning earthquake shocks 
The reeling hills and shatter'd rocks, 
Aud every mortal project mocks. 

No skeptic he— vfho bold essays 
T' unravel all the mystic maze 
Of the Creator's mighty plan — 
A task beyond the pow'rs of man : 
AVho, when his reason fails to soar 
High as liis will, believes no more- 
No !— calmly thro' the world he steals. 
Nor seeks to trace what God conceals, 
Content with what that God reveals. 



SCOTCH SONG. 

There are tears o' pity, an' tears o' wae, 
An' tears for excess o' joy will fa', 
Yet the tears o' luve arc nHrcter than a\' 

There are sighs o' pity, an' sighs o' wae, 
An' sighs o' regret frae the saul will gae; 
Yet the si'jhs o' luva are sweeter than a'! 

There's the look o' pity, the look o' wae, 
The look o' fiien,' an' the look o' fae; 
Yet the look o' luve is sweeter than a'/ 



There's the smile o' fiicnds when they come frae far, 
There's the smile o' joy in the festive ha' ; 
Yet the smile o' hive is sweeter than a\' 



BORNE ON LIGHT WINGS OF BUOY- 
ANT DOWN." 

" Xunc niilji, nunc alii benigna." 

Horace. 

Borne on light wings of buoyant down, 
Mounts the hoar thistle-beard aloft; 
■ An air scarce felt can bear it on, 
A touch propel, tho' e'er so soft : 
Dislodged from yonder thistle's head. 
Upon the passing gale it fled. 

See ! to each object on its way 

A faithless moment it adheres; 
But if one breeze npon it play. 

Breaks its slight bonds and disappears: 
Its silken sail each zephyr catches, 
A breath its airy hold detaches. 

The man who wins thy love awhile, 
Should never dream it will remain ; 

For one fond word, one courteous smile. 
Will set thy heart afloat again. 

But he whose eye the light can chasfe. 

That sports above the trembling vase. 

Attend its roving sheen, pursue 
Its rapid movements here and there, 

And with a firm unwavering view 
Arrest the fleeting phantom fair, 

May fix inconstancy— ensure 

Thy love, thy fickle faith secure 1 

How many have— for many ask— 
The kiss I fondly deem'd my own ! 

And hundreds in succession bask 
In eye-beams due to me alone : 

Tho' all, like me, in turn must prove 

The wandering nature of thy love. 

Thou saw'st the glow-worm on our way. 
Last eve, with mellow lustre shine — 

Clad in pellucid flame she lay. 
And gliumier'd in her amber shrine — 

Would that those eyes of heavenly blue 

Were half as faithful and as true ! 

And lo ! the blush, quick mantling, breaks 
In rich suffusion o'er thy cheek ; 

In sudden vermeil Conscience speaks, 
No further, fuller proof I seek: 

The rosy herald there was sent. 

To bid thee own it and repent. 



SONG. 

It is the solemn even-time, 

And the holy organ's pealing: 
And the vesper chime, oh! the vesper chimsJ 

O'er the clear blue wave is stealing. 

It is tho solemn mingled swell 

Of the monks in chorus singing: 
And the vesper bell, oh! the vesper bell! 

To the gale Is its soft note flinging. 

'Tis the sound of the voices sweeping along, 
Like the wind thro' a grove of larches: 

And the vesper song, oh ! the vesper song! 
Echoes sad thro' the cloister'd arches. 



THE STARS OF YON BLUE PLACID SKY."— ON SUBLnilTY. 



343 



THE STARS OF YON BLUE PLACID 
SKY." 

"... .supereminet omnes." — ViRGIL, 

Tub stars of you blue placid sky 

III vivid thousands buni, 
And beaming fiom their orbs on high, 

On radiant axes turn : 
The eye with wonder gazes there, 
And could but gaze ou sight so fair. 

But should a comet, brighter still, 

His blazing train unfold 
Among the many lights that fill 

The sapphiriue with gold ; 
Jlore wonder then would one bestow 
Than millions of a meaner glow. 

E'en so, sweet maid! thy beauties shine 
With light so peerless and divine, 
That others, who have charm'd before, 
When match'd with thee, attract uo more. 



FRIENDSHIP. 

** Neque ego nunc de vulgar! aiit de mediocri, quie tamen ipsa ct 
delectat et prodest, sed de vera et perfecta loquor [aniicitia] qualis 
eorum, qui pauci nominantur, fuit." — Cicero. 

O Tuou most holy Friendship ! whereso'er 

Thy dwelling be — for in the courts of mau 
But seldom thine all-heavenly voice we hear, 

Sweel'uing the moments of our narrow span ; 

And seldoni thy bright footsteps do we scan 
Along the weary waste of life unblest. 

For faithless is its frail and wayward plan. 
And perfidy is man's eternal guest. 
With dark suspicion link'd and shameless interest! 

'Tis thine, when life has reach'd its final goal, 
Ere the last sigh that frees the mind be giv'u. 

To speak sweet solace to the parting soul. 
And pave the bitter patli that leads to heav'n : 
'Tis thine, whene'er the heart is rack'd and riv'u 

By the hot shafts of baleful calumny. 
When the dark spirit to despair is driv'n, 

To teach its lonely grief to lean on thee. 
And pour within thine ear the tale of misery. 

But where art thou, thou comet of an age. 

Thou pha3nix of a century? Perchance 
Thon art but of those fables which engage 

And hold the minds of men in giddy trance. 

Yet, be it so, and be it all romance. 
The thought of thine existence is so bright 

With beantiftil imagiuing.s — the glance 
Upon thy fancied being such delight. 
That I will deem thee Truth, so lovely is thy might ! 



ON THE DEATH OF BIY GRAND- 
MOTHER. 

*' Cut pudor et justitia; soror 
Incorrupta fides nudaque Veritas, 
Quando ullum inveiiieiit parein ?" 

HonACE. 

TuEKE on her bier she sleeps 1 
E'en yet her face its native sweetness Iceeps. 
Ye need not mourn above that faded form, 
Her soul defies the ravage of the worm ; 
Her better half has sought its heavenly rest, 
Uustaiu'd, unharm'd, unfetter'd, unopprest; 



And far above all worldly pain and woe. 

She sees that God she almost saw below. 

She trod the path of virtue from her birth. 

And finds in Heaven what she sought ou earth; 

She wins the smile of her eternal King, 

And sings his praise where kindred angels sing. 

Her holy patience, her unshaken faith, 

How well they smooth'd the rugged path of Death 1 

She met his dread approach witliout alarm. 

For Heaven in prospect makes the spirit calm. 

In steadfast trust and Christian virtue strong, 

Hope on her brow, and Jesus on her tongue ; 

Her faith, like Stephen's, soften'd her distress — 

Scarce less her anguish, scarce her patience less ! 



"AND ASK YE WHY THESE SAD 
TEARS STREAM ?" 

"Te somnia nostra reducunt." — OviD. 

And ask ye why these sad tears stream ? 

Why these wan eyes are dim with weeping? 
I had a dream — a lovely dream. 

Of her that in the grave is sleeping. 

I saw her as 'twas yesterday. 

The bloom upon her cheek still glowiug ; 
And round her play'd a golden ray. 

And on her brows were gay flowers blowing. 

With angel-hand she swept a lyre, 
A garland red with roses bound it ; 

Its strings were wreath'd with lambent fire, 
And amaranth was woven round it. 

I saw her mid the realms of light. 

In everlasting radiance gleaming; 
Co-equal with the seraphs bright. 

Mid thousand thousand angels beaming. 

I strove to reach her, when, behold, 
Those fairy forms of bliss Elysian, 

And all that rich scene wrapt in gold 
Faded in air — a lovely vision ! 

And I awoke, but oh ! to me 
That waking hour was doubly weary ; 

And yet I could not envy thee, 
Although so blest, and I so dreary. 



ON SUBLIMITY. 



"Tl.e sublii 



lys dwells on great objects and terrible." 

Bir.KF. 
O TEi.T> me not of vales in tenderest green. 

The poplar's shade, the plantain's graceful tree ; 
Give me the wild cascade, the rngged scene. 

The loud surge bursting o'er the purple sea : 
On such sad views my soul delights to pore. 

By Teneriffe's peak, or Kilda's giant height. 
Or dark Loft'oden's melancholy shore. 

What time gray eve is fading into night; 
When by that twilight beam I scarce descry 
The mingled shades of earth and sea and sky. 

Give me to wander at midnight alone. 

Through some august cathedral, where, from high, 
The cold, clear moon on the mosaic stone 

Comes glancing in gay colors gloriously. 
Through windows rich with gorgeous blazonry, 

Gilding the niches dim, where, side by side. 
Stand antique mitred prelates, whose bones lie 

Beueaih the pavement, where their deeds of pride 



344 



THE DEITY. 



Were graven, but long since are worn a\v;iy 
By coustaut feet of ages clay by ilay. 

Then, as Imagination aids, I hear 

Wild heavenly voices sounding from the choir, 
And more than mortal music meets mine ear, 

Whose long, long notes among the tombs expire. 
With solemn rustling of cTierubic wings. 

Round those vast columns which the roof upbear ; 
While sad and undistinguishable things 

Do flit athwart the moonlit windows there; 
And my blood curdles at the chilling sound 
Of lone, unearthly steps, that pace the hallow'd 
ground ! 

I love the starry spangled lieav'n, resembling 

A canopy with tiery gems o'erspread, 
■W'hen the wide loch with silvery sheen is trembling. 

Far stretch'd beneath the mountain's hoary head. 
But most I love that sky, when, dark with storms, 

It frowns terrific o'er this wilder'd earth. 
While the black clouds, in strange and uncouth forms, 

Come hurrying onward in their ruinous wrath ; 
And shrouding in their deep and gloomy robe 
The burning eyes of heav'u and Diau's lucid globe ! 

I love your voice, ye echoing winds, that sweep 

Thro' the wide womb of midnight, when the veil 
Of darkness rests upon the mighty deep, 

The laboring vessel, and the shatter'd sail — 
Save when the forked bolts of lightning leap 

On flashing pinions, and the mariner pale 
Eaises his eyes to heav'u. Oh ! who would sleep 

What time the rushing of the angry gale 
Is loud up(m the waters ?— Hail, all hail! 
Tempest and clouds and night and thunder's rend- 
ing peal ! 

All hail, Sublimity ! thou lofty one. 

For thon dost walk upon the blast, and gird 
Thy majesty with terrors, and thy throne 

Is on the wliirlwind, and thy voice is heard 
In thunders and in shakings: thy delight 

Is in the secret wood, the blasted heath. 
The ruin'd fortress, and the dizzy height. 

The grave, the ghastly charnel-house of death. 
In vaults, in cloisters, and in gloomy piles. 
Long corridors and towers and solitary aisles ! 

Thy joy is in obscurity, and plain 

Is naught with tliee ; and on thy steps attend 
Shadows but half distinguish'd ; the thin train 

Of hovering spirits round thy pathway bend, 
W'ith their low tremulous voice and airy tread,* 

What time tlie tomb above them yawns and gapes: 
For thou dost hold communion with the dead 

Phantoms and phantasies and grisly shajies ; 
And shades and lieadless spectres of St. Mark,t 
Seen by a lurid light, formless and still and dark ! 

What joy to view the varied rainbow smile 

On Niagara's flood of matchless might. 
Where all around the melancholy islet 

The billows sparkle with their hues of light! 
While, as the restless surges roar and rave, 

The arrowy stream descends with awful sound, 
Wheeling and whirling with each breathless wave,§ 

Immense, sublime, raagniticent, profound! 



* According to Kurke, a low, tremulous, iiitennittod sound is con- 
ducive to the sublime. 

t It is a received opinion, that on St. Mnrk's Eve all the jiersons 
who aie to die in the following year make their appearances with- 
out their heads in the ehurclies of their resiwotivc parishes. See Dr. 
Lanirhorne's Notes to Collins. 

J This island, on bolli siiles of which the waters rush with aston- 
ishing swiftness, is 900 or POO feet long, and its lower edge is just at 
the perpendicular edge of the fall. 

§ "Undis Phlegetlion perlustrat an/ie?t«."— ClaUDIAX. 



If thou hast seen all this, and could'st not feel. 
Then know, thine heart is framed of marble or of 
steel. 

The hurricane fair earth to darkness changing, 

Kentucky's chambers of eternal gloom,* 
Tlie swift-paced columns of the desert ranging 

Til' uneven waste, the violent Simoom, 
Thy snow-clad peaks, stupendous Gungotree ! 

Whence springs the hallow'd Jumna's echoing tide, 
Hoar Uotopasi's cloud-capt majesty. 

Enormous Chimborazo's naked pride. 
The dizzy cape of winds that cleaves the sky,t 
Whence we look down into eternity. 

The pillar'd cave of Morven's giant king.t 

The Yanar,§ and the Geyser's boiling fountain, 
The deep volcano's inward murmuring. 

The shadowy Colossus of the mountain ;ll 
Antiparos, where sunbeams never enter; 

Loud Stromboli, amid the quaking isles ; 
The terrible Maelstroom, around his centre 

Wheeling his circuit of nunumber'd miles: 
These, these are sights and sounds that freeze the 

blood, 
Yet charm the awe -struck soul which doats ou 
solitude. 

Blest be the bard, whose willing feet rejoice 

To tread the emerald green of Fancy's vales, 
Who hears the music of her heavenly voice, 

And breathes the rapture of her nectar'd gales ! 
Blest be the bard, whom golden Fancy loves, 

He strays forever thro' her blooming bowers. 
Amid the rich profusion of her groves. 

And wreathes his forehead with her spicy flowers 
Of sunny radiance ; but how blest is he 
Who feels the genuine force of high Sublimity 1 



THE DEITY. 

" Immutable — immortal — infinite I" — IIILTON*. 

WuKUE is the wonderful abode. 
The holy, secret, searchiess shrine, 

Where dwells the immaterial God, 
The all-pervading and benign? 

Oh that he were reveal'd to me, 

Fully and palpably display'd 
In all the awful majesty 

Of Heaven's consummate pomp array'd — 

How would the overwhelming light 
Of his tremendous presence beam! 

And how insufi'erably bright 
Would the broad glow of glory stream ! 

What tho' this flesh would fade like grass. 

Before th' intensity of day? 
One glance at Him who always was, 

The fiercest pangs would well repay. 



* .See Dr. Naliinn Ward's account of the great Kentucky cavern, 
in the MinilM'j Magazine, October, 1816. 
t In the Ukraine. 

X Fingal's Cave in the Island of Staffa. If tho Colossus of Khod"S 
bestrid a harbor, Fingal's powers were certainly far from despica- 
ble : 

A chos air Cromleaeh drnim-ard 
t'lios eile air Cronnneal dubli 
Thoga Fion le lamh mhoir 
An d'uisge o Lubhair na fi-uth. 

W:tli one foot on Cromleaeh his brow. 
The other on Crommeal the dark, 
Fion took np w-'th his large hand 
The water frotn Lubhair of streams. 
See the Disscrtatiims jirellxed to Ossian's Poems. 
§ Or pcriietual fire. 1 Alias, the Spectre of tho Broken. 



THE HEIGN OF LOVE.— TIME: AN ODE. 



3i5 



When Moses on the mountain's brow 
Had met th' Eternal face to face, 

While anxious Israel stood below, 
Woud'ring and trembling at its base; 

His visage, as he downward trod. 
Shone starlike on the shrinking crowd, 

With lustre borrow'd from his God: 
They could not brook it, and they bow'd. 

The mere reflection of the blaze 
That lighten'd round creation's Lord, 

Was too puissant for their gaze ; 
A;:d he that caught it was adored. 

Ti:eu how ineffably august, 

How passing wond'rous must He be. 
Whose presence lent to earthly dust 

Such permanence of brilliancy ! 



Throned in sequester'd sanctity, 
And with transcendent glories crowu'd; 

With all His works beneath His eye, 
And suns and systems burning round, - 

How shall I hymn Him? How aspire 
His holy Name with song to blend, 

And bid my rash and feeble lyre 
To such an awlcss flight ascend? 



THE REIGN OF LOVE.. 

"In freta dum fluvii current," etc.— Virgil. 

While roses boast a purple dye, 

While seas obey the blast. 
Or glowing rainbows span the sky— 

The reign of love shall last. 

While man exults o'er present joy. 
Or mourns o'er joy that's past, 

Feels virtue soothe, or vice alloj' 

The reign of love shall last. 

While female charms attract the mind. 

In moulds of beauty cast ; 
While man is warm, or woman kind— 

The reign of love shall last. 



"'TIS THE VOICE OF THE DEAD. 

*' Non oninis moriar." — HOK.\CE. 

'Tis the voice of the dead 

From the depth of their glooms: 
Hark ! they call me away 

To the world of the tombs! 
I come, lo ! I come 

To your lonely abodes, 
For my dust is the earth's 

But this soul is my God's 1 

Thine is not the trinmph, 

O invincible Death ! 
Thou hast not prevail'd, 

Tho' I yield thee my breath: 
Thy sceptre shall wave 

O'er a fragment of cla}'. 
But my spirit, thou tyrant, 

Is bounding away 1 

I fear not, I feel not 
The pang that destroys, 



In the bliss of that thought— 
That the blest shall rejoice: 

For why should I shrink? 
One moment shall sever 

TJy soul from its chain. 
Then it liveth forever I 

Then weep not for me, 

Tho' I sink, I shall rise; 
I shall live, tho' I sleep— 

'Tis the guilty who dies. 
E'en now in mine ear 

'Tis a seraph who sings : 
Farewell !— for I go 

On the speed of his wings I 



TIME: AN ODE. 



I SEK the chariot, where. 
Throughout the purple air, 

The foreliick'd monarch rides: 
Arm'd like some antique vehicle for war, 
Time, hoary Time! 5 see thy scythed c^ir, 
In voiceless majesty, 

Cleaving the clouds of ap-e^ that float by, 
And change their manycolor'd sides. 
Now dark, now dun, now richly bright, 
In an ever-varying lighr. 
The great, the lowly, and the brave 
Bow down before the rushing force 
Of thine unconquerable course ; 
Thy wheels are noiseless as the grave. 
Yet fleet as Heaven's red bolt they hurry on, 
They pass above us, and are gone ! 

Clear is the track which thou hast past; 
Strew'd with the wrecks of frail renown. 
Robe, sceptre, banner, wreath, and crown. 
The pathway that before thee lies, 
An undistinguishable waste, 
Invisible to human eves, 
Which fain would scan the various shapes whicj 
glide 
In dusky cavalcade. 
Imperfectly descried. 

Through that intense, impenetrable shade. 

Four gray steeds thy chariot draw; 
In th' obdurate, tameless jaw 
Their rusted iron bits they sternly champ; 
Ye may not hear the echoing tramp 
Of their light-bounding, windy feet, 
Upon that cloudy pavement beat. 
Four wings have each, which, far outspread, 

Receive the many blasts of heav'n. 
As with unwearied speed, 

Throughout the l<mg extent of ether driv'u, 
Onward they rush forever and for aye: 
Thy voice, thou mighty Charioteer! 
Always sounding in their ear, ' 
Throughout the gloom of night and heat of day. 

Fast behind thee follows Death, 

Thro' the ranks of wan and weeping. 
That yield their miserable breath, 

On with his pallid courser proudly sweeping. 
Arm'd is he in full mail,* 

Blight breastplate and high crest. 
Nor is the trenchant falchion wanting: 
So fiercely does he ride the gale. 

On Time's dark car, before him, rest 
The dew-drops of his charger's panting, 

* I am indebted for the idea of Death's armor to thai famoui 
cliorus in " Caractacue " beginning with— 

" Hark ', heard je not that footstep dread ?" 



346 GOD'S DENUNCIATIONS AGAINST PHARAOH-HOPIIRA, OR APRIES. 



On, on they go along the boundless skies, 

All huniau grandeur fades away 
Before their flashing, fiery, hollow eyes; 
Beneath the terrible control 
Of those vast armed orbs, which roll 
Oblivion on the creatures of a day. 
Those splendid monuments alone he spares 

Which, to her deathless votaries. 
Bright Fame, with glowing hand, uprears 
Amid the waste of countless years. 

"Live ye I" to these he crieth ; "live ! 

To ye eternity I give — 

Ye, upon whose blessed birth 

The noblest star of heaven hath shone ; 
Live, when the ponderous pyramids of earth 

Are crumbling in oblivion ! 
Live, when, wrapt in sulleu shade. 
The golden hosts of lieaven shall fade ; 
Live, when yon gorgeous sun on high 
Shall veil the sparkling of his eye ! 
Live, when imperial Time and Death himself shall 
die!" 



GODS DENUNCIATIONS AGAINST PIIA- 
RAOH-IIOPUUA, OR APRIES. 

Tuon beast of the flood, who hast said in thy soul, 
" I have made me a stream that forever shall roll !"" 
Thy strength Is the flower that shall last but a day, 
And thy might is the snow in the sun's burning ray. 

Arm, arm from the east. Babylonia's son ! 

Arm, arm for the battle — the Lord leads thee on ! 

With the shield of thy fame, and the power of thy 

pride. 
Arm, arm in thy glory — the Lord is tliy guide. 

Thou shalt come like a storm wheu the moonlight 
is dim. 

And the lake's gloomy bosom is full to the brim; 

Thou Shalt come like the flash in the daikiiess of 
night. 

When the wolves of the forest shall howl for af- 
fright. 

Woe, woe to thee, Tauislt thy babes shall be throw-n 
By the barbarous hands on the cold marble-stone: 
Woe, woe to thee, Nile ! for thy stream shall be red 
With the blood that shall gush o'er thy billowy bed ! 

Woe, woe to thee, Memphis !t the war-cry is near. 
And the child shall be toss'd on the murderers 

spear; 
For fiercely he conies in the day of his ire. 
With wheels like a whirlwind, and chariots of fire 1 



"ALL JOYOUS IN THE REALIMS OF 
DAY." 

" Ilominmii ilivomriue pater."— Vn;oiL. 

Ai.T. joy(n)s in the realms of day, 

Tlie radiant angels sing. 
In incorruptible array. 

Before the Eternal King: 



* *' Pliny's reproach to the Egyptians, for their vain and foolish 
pride with reg^ard to the inundations of the Nile, points out one of 
tlieir most distinj^uishing characteristics, and recalls to my mind a 
fine passage of Ezekrel, where God thus spealts to Pharnoli, one of 
their kings : Behold, 1 am against thee, Pharaoh kinf^r of Ejjypt, the 
great dragon that licth in the midst of his rivers, that hath said, 
My river is mine own, and I have made it for myself."— HoLI.I.v, 
vol, i, p. 216. 

t Tile Scriptural appellations are " Zoan " and '* Nojih," 



Wlio, hymn'd by archangelic tongues, 

In majesty and might. 
The subject of ten thousand songs, 

Sits veil'd in circling light. 

Benignly great, serenely dread, 

Amid th' immortal choir. 
How glory plays around his head 

Li rays of heavenly fire ! 

Before the blaze of Deity 

The deathless legions bend. 
And to the grand co-eqnal Tliree 

Their choral homage lend. 

They laud that God, who has no peers, 
High — holy — searchless — pure ; 

Who has endured for countless years, 
And ever will endure: 

Who spoke, and fish, fowl, beast, in pairs, 

Or sw;im, or flew, or trod ; 
Si)ace glitter'd with unnumber'd stars, 

Aud heaving oceans flow'd. 

Then let us join our feeble praise 

To that wliich angels give ; 
And hymns to that great Parcit raise, 

In whom we breathe and live ! 



THE BATTLE-FIELD. 

"When all is o'er, it is humbling to tread 
O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead !" 

BvnON^. 

The heat and the chaos of contest are o'er. 
To mingle no longer — to madden no more: 
And the cold forms of heroes are stretch'd on the 

plain ; 
Those lips cannot breathe thro' the trumpet again ! 

For the globes of destruction have shatter'd their 

might. 
The swift and the burning— and wrapt them in night: 
Like lightning, electric and sudden they came; 
They took but their life, aud they left them their 

fame ! 

I heard, oh ! I heard, when, with barbarous bray, 
Tliey leapt from the month of the cannon away; 
And the lond-rushing sonnd of their passage in air 
Seem'd to speak in a terrible language— '" Beware !" 

Farewell to ye, chieftains ; to one and to all, 
Who this day have perish'd by sabre or ball ; 
Ye cannot awake from your desolate sleep — 
Unbroken and silent aud dreamless aud deep ! 



THE THUNDER-STORM. 



TuF. storm is brooding!— I wcnild see it pass, 

Observe its tenor, and its progress trace. 

How dark and dim the gathering clouds appear, 

Their rolling thunders seem to rend the ear! 

But faint at first, they slowly, sternly rise. 

From mntt'rings low to peals which rock the skicc 

As if at first their fury they forbore. 

And nursed their terrors for a closing roar. 

And hark ! they rise into a loftier sound. 

Creation's trembling objects quake around ; 

In silent awe the subject-nations hear 

Th' appalling crash of elemental war; 



THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE.— THE WALK AT MIDNIGHT. 



347 



The lii^htDiiig too each eye iu dimness shrouds, 

The fiery pi-ogeny of clashing clouds, 

That carries ilenth upon its blazing wing, 

And the keen tortures of th' electric sting : 

Not like the harmless flash on summer's eve 

(When no rude blasts their silent slumbers leave). 

Which, like a radiant vision to the eye. 

Expands serenely in the placid sky ; 

It rushes fleeter than the swiftest wind, 

And bids attendant thunders wait behind: 

Quick— forked— livid, thro' the air it flies, 

A moment blazes— dazzles — bursts — and dies: 

Another, and another yet, and still 

To each replies its own allotted peal. 

But see, at last., its force and fury spent. 

The tempest slackens, and the clouds are rent: 

How sweetly opens on th' enchanted view 

The deep-blue sky, more fresh and bright in hue ! 

A finer fragrance breathes in every vale, 

A fuller luxury in every gale; 

My ravish'd senses catch the rich perfume. 

And Kature smiles in renovated bloom! 



THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE. 

Hatik! how the gale, iu mournful notes and stem. 
Sighs thro' you grove of aged oaks, that wave 

(While down these solitary walks I turn) 
Their mingled branches o'er you lonely grave ! 

Poor soul ! the dawning of thy life was dim ; 

Frown'd the dark clouds upon thy natal day; 
Soon rose thy cup of sorrow to the brim. 

And hope itself but shed a doubtful ray. 

Tliat hope had fled, and all within was gloom; 

That hope had fled — thy woe to frenzy grew ; 
For thou, wed to misery from the womb — 

Scarce one bright scene thy uight of darkness 
knew ! 

Oft when the moonbeam on the cold bank sleeps, 
Where 'ueath the dewy turf thy form is laid, 

In silent woe thy wretched mother weeps. 
By this lone tomb, and by this oak-tree's shade. 

"Oh! softly tread: in death he slumbers here; 

'Tis here," she cries, '• within his narrow cell !" — 
The bitter sob, the wildly-starting tear, 

The quivering lip, proclaim the rest too well I 



ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON. 

"Unus tanta dedit? — dedit et majora daturus 
Ni celci-i letlio corriperetur, erat." 
DON MANUEL DE SOUZA COUTINO'S Epitaph on Camoei 

TuE hero and the bard is gone ! 
His bright career on earth is done, 
Where with a comet's blaze he shone. 

He died— where vengeance arms the brave. 
Where buried freedom quits her grave. 
In regions of the eastern wave. 

Yet not before his ardent lay 
Had bid them chase all fear awnj% 
And taught their trumps a bolder bray. 

Thro' him their ancient valor glows. 
And, stung by thraldom's scathing woes. 
They rise again, as once they rose.* 



* A little exoggeratiou may be pardoned i 



subject ! 



As once in conscious glory bold. 

To war their sounding cars they roll'd, 

Uncrush'd, uutrampled, uucoutroU'd ! 

Each drop that gushes from their side, 

Will serve to swell the crimson tide. 

That soon shall whelm the Moslem's pride 1 

At last upon their lords they turn, 
At last the shame of bondage learn. 
At last they feel their fetters burn !* 

Oh ! how the heart expands to see 

An injured people all agree 

To burst those fetters and be free ! 

Each far-famed mount that cleaves the skies, 
Each plain where buried glory lies. 
All, all exclaim— "Awake ! arise !" 

Who would not feel their wrongs? and who 
Departed freedom would not rue. 
With all her trophies iu his view ? 

To see imperial Athens reign. 
And, towering o'er the vassal main. 
Rise iu embattled strength agaiu^ 

To see rough Sparta train once more 
Her infants' ears for battle's roar, 
Stern, dreadful, chaiuless, as before — 

Was Byron's hope— was Byron's aim : 
With ready heart and hand he came ; 
But perish'd iu that path of fame ! 



THE WALK AT MIDNIGHT. 

"Tremulo sub lumiuo." — VinoiL. 

Soft, shadowy moonbeam ! by thy light 
Sleeps the wide meer serenely pale: 

How various are the sounds of night, 
Borne ou the scarcely-rising gale ! 

The swell of distant brook is heard, 

Wliose far-off" waters faintly roll ; 
And piping of the shrill small bird, 

Arrested by the waud'riug owl. 

Come hither ! let us thread with care 
The maze of this green path, which binds 

The beauties of the broad parterre, 
And ihro' you fragrant alley winds. 

Or on this old bench will we sit, 

Round which the clust'ring woodbine wreathes: 
While birds of night around us flit ; 

And thro' each lavish wood-walk breathes, 

Unto my ravish'd senses, brought 
Prom yon thick-woven odorous bowers. 

The still rich breeze, with incense fraught 
Of glowing fruits and spangled flowers. 

The whispering leaves, the gushing stream. 
Where trembles the uncertain moon. 

Suit more the poet's pensive dream. 
Than all the jarring notes of noon. 

Then, to the thickly-crowded mart 

The eager sons of interest press; 
Then, shine the tinsel works of art — 

Now, all is Nature's loneliness ! 

* The enthusiasm the noble poet excited reminds us of Tyrtaus. 



348 



THE BAED'S FAREWELL.— EriGUAM. 



Then, wealth aloft in state displays 
The glittering of her gilded cars; 

Now, dimly stream the mingled rays 
Of you far-twiukling, silver stars. 

You church, whose cold gray spire appears 
lu the black outliue of the trees, 

Conceals the object of my tears, 
Whose form iu dreams my spirit sees. 

There iu the chilliug bed of earth 
The cliaucel's letter'd stone above — 

There sleepcth she who gave me birth. 
Who taught my lips the hymu of love I 

You mossy stems of ancient oak, 
So widely crowu'd with sombre shade, 

Tiiose ue'er have heard the woodman's stroke 
Their solemn, secret depths invade. 

IIow oft the grassy way I've trod 
That winds their knotty boles between. 

And gather'd from the blooming sod 
The flowers that flourish'd there iiusceu ! 

Rise ! let ns trace that path once more. 
While o'er our track the cold beams sliiue ; 

Dowu this low shingly vale, and o'er 
You rude, rough bridge of prostrate piue. 



MITHRIDATES PRESENTING BERE- 
NICE WITH THE CUR OF TOISON. 

On I Berenice, loru aud lost, 

This wretched soul with shame is bleeding: 
Oh ! Berenice, I am tost 

By griefs, like wave to wave succeeding. 

Fall'u Pontus ! all her fame is gone, 

And dim the splendor of her glory; 
Low iu the west her evening sun, 

Aud dark the lustre of her story. 

Dead is the wreath that round her brow 
The glowing hands of Honor braided: 

What change of fate cau wait her now. 
Her sceptre spoil'd, her throne degraded? 

And wilt thou, wilt thou basely go, 
My love, thy life, thy country shaming, 

In all the agonies of woe, 
'Mid madd'niug shouts, aud standards flaming? 

And wilt thou, wilt thou basely go, 
Proud Rome's triumphal car adorning? 

Hark! haik ! I hear thee answer "No!" 
The profl'cr'd life of thraldom scorning. 

Lone, crownless, destitute, and poor, 
My heart with bitter pain is buruiug; 

So thick a cloud of night hangs o'er, 
Aly daylight into darkness turning. 

Yet though my spirit, bow'd with ill, 

Small hope from fiitiire fortune borrows ; 
One glorious thought shall cheer me still. 

That thou art free from abject sorrows- 
Art free forever from the strife 

Of slavery's pangs and tearful anguish ; 
For life is death, and death is life. 

To those whose limbs iu fetters languish. 

Fill high the bowl I the draught is thine ! 
The Romans !— uow thou ueed'st not heed ihcm ! 



'Tis uobler than the noblest wine- 
It gives thee back to fame and fieedom ! 

The scalding tears my cheek bedew ; 

My life, my love, my all — we sever! 
One last embrace, one long adieu. 

And tlieu farewell— farewell forever ! 

In reality Mitliridates had no personal interview with Sloniina 
and lierenicc before the deaths of those princesses, but only sent Iiis 
eunuch Bacclndas to signify his intention tliat they should die. I 
have chosen Borciiice as the more general name, thoujjh Monlma 
was his peculiar favorite. 



THE BARD'S FAREWELL. 

"The kin^, sensible that nothing kept alive the ideas of military 
valor and of ancient glory so much as the traditional poetry of the 
people— which, assisted by the power of music and the jollity of 
festivals, made deep impression on the minds of the youth — gath- 
ered together all the Welsh bards, and, from a barbarous though not 
absurd policy, ordered them to be put to death." — UUMIS. 

Snowdon ! thy cliff's shall hear no more 

This deep-toned harp again ; 
But banner-cry and battle-roar 

Shall form a fiercer strain ! 

O'er thy sweet chords, my magic lyre! 

What future hand shall stray? 
AVhat brain shall feel thy master's fire, 

Or frame his matchless lay? 

Well might the crafty Edward fear: 

Should I but touch thy chord. 
Its slightest sound would couch the spear, 

And bare the indignant sword ! 

Full well he knew the wizard-spcll 

That dwelt upon thy string; 
Aud trembled, when he heard thy swell 

Thro' Suowdou's caverns ring ! 

These eyes shall sleep in death's dull night, 

This hand all uerveless lie. 
Ere once again you orb of light 

Break o'er the clear blue sky ! 

Aud thou, by Hell's own furies uurst, 

Unfurl thy banner's pride! 
But know that, living, thee I cursed; 

Aud, cursing thee, I died ! 



EPIGRAM. 

Medea's herbs her magic gave— 
Tliey tauglit her how to kill or save: 
No foreign aid couldst thou devise, 
For in thyself thy magic lies. 



ON BEING ASKED FOR A SIJIILE, 

TO ILLUSTRATE THE AtlV.VNTAGE OF KEEPING THE I'AS- 
SIONS SnUSEUVIENT TO REASON. 

As the sharp, pungent taste is the glory of mustard, 
But, if heighten'd, would trouble your touchy pa- 

pillPB ; 

As a few laurel-leaves add a relish to custard, 
But, if many, would fight with your stomach and 
kill ye:— 

So the passions, if freed from the precincts of reason, 
Have noxious eft'ects— but if duly confined, sir, 

Are useful, no doubt — this each writer agrees on : 
So I've dish'd up a simile just to your mind, sir. 



EPIGRAM OX A MUSICIAN.— THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 



349 



EPIGRAJI OX A JIUSICIAN, 

WUOSE UARP-BTRINGS WERE On.VCKRl) FROM WANT 
OF USING. 

"■"iViiY dost thou not string thine old haiyf" says a 

IViencl : 
"Thy complaints," replied Dolce, "I think never 

end; 
I've reason eno-.igh to remember the thing, 
For j'oii always are harping vpon the old string.'' 



THE OLD CIIIEFTAIX. 

"Ana said I, that my limbs were old I"— SCOTT. 

Rairk, raise the song of the hundred shells ! 

Though my hair is gray and my limbs are cold; 
Yet in my bosom proudly dwells 

The memory of the days of old ; 

When my voice was high, and my arm was strong, 
And the foeman before my stroke would bow. 

And I could have raised the sounding song 
As loudly as I hear ye now. 

For when I have chanted the bold song of death, 
Not a page would have stay'd in the hall, 

Not a lance in the rest, not a sword in the sheath, 
Not a shield on the dim gray wall. 

And who might resist the united powers 

Of battle and music that day, 
When, all martiall'd in arms ou the heaven-kissing 
towers, 

Stood, the chieftains iu peerless array? 

When onr enemies sunk from our eyes as the snow 
Which falls down the stream in the dell, 

AVhen each word that I spake was the death of a 
foe, 
And each note of my harp was his knell? 

So raise j-e the song of the hundred shells; 

Though my hair is gray and my limbs are cold, 
Yet in my bosom proudly dwells 

The memory of the days of old ! 



APOLLONIUS RIIODIUS'S COMPLAINT.* 

With cutting taunt they bade me lay 

My high-strung harp aside. 
As if 1 dare not soar away 

On Fancy's plume of pride ! 

Oh ! while there's image iu my brain 

And vigor in my hand. 
The first shall frame the soul-fraught strain, 

The last these chords command I 

'Tls true, I own, the starting tear 

Has swell'd into mine eye, 
MTieu she, whose hand the plant should rear. 

Could bid it fade and die: 

But, deaf to cavil, spite, and scorn, 

I still must wake the lyre ; 
And still, on Fancy's pinions borne, 

To Helicon aspire. 



* This eminent poet, resenting the unworthy treatment of the 
Alexandrians, quitted their city, where he had been for some time 
librarian, and retired to Ithodes. 



And all the ardent lays I pour, 

Another realm shall claim ; 
My name shall live — a foreign shore 

Shall consecrate my name. 

My country's* scorn I will not brook, 

But she shall rue it long; 
And Rhodes shall bless the hour she took 

The exiled child of song. 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 

JrnnsAi-EM ! Jerusalem ! 

Thou art low ! thou mighty one. 
How is the brilliance of thy diadem. 

How is the lustre of thy throne 
Rent from thee, and thy sun of fame 

Darken'd by the shadowy pinion 
Of the Roman bird, whose sway 
All the tribes of,earth obey, 

Ci'ouching 'neath his dread dominion, 
And the terrors of his name ! 

How is thy royal sent— whereon 

Sat iu days of yore 
Lowly Jesse's godlike son, 
And the strength of Solomon, 
In those rich and happy times 
When the ships from Tarshish bore 

Incense, and from Ophir's laud, 
With silken sail and cedar oar. 
Wafting to Judea's strand 
All the wealth of foreign climes — 
How is thy royal seat o'erthrown ! 
Gone is all thy majesty : 
Salem! Salem 1 city of kings. 
Thou sittest desolate and lone, 
Where once the gloi-y of the Most High 
Dwelt visibly enshrined between the wings 
Of C'herubims, within whose bright embrace 

The golden mercy-seat remaiu'd : 
Land of Jehovah ! view that sacred place 
Abandon'd and profaned I 

Wail ! fallen Salem ! Wail : 

Jlohammed's votaries pollute thy faue; 
The dark division of thine holy veil 
Is rent in twain ! 
Thrice hath Sion's crowned rock 
Seen thy temple's marble state. 
Awfully, serenely great. 
Towering on his sainted brow. 
Rear its pinnacles of snow: 
Thrice, with desolating shock, 

Down to earth hath seen it driv'ii 

From his heights, which reach to heav'n 1 

Wail, fallen Salem ! Wail : 

Though not one stone above aiiother 
There was left to tell the tale 

Of the greatness of thy story. 
Yet the long lapse of ages cannot smother 
The blaze of thine abounding glory; 
Which thro' the mist of rolling years, 
O'er history's darken'd page appears. 
Like the morning star, whose gleam 
Gazeth thro' the waste of night. 
What lime old Ocean's purple stream 

In his cold surge hath deeply laved 
Its ardent front of dewy light. 
Oh ! who shall e'er forget thy bands, which 
braved 



* Al''xandria, h 
Xaucratis. 



was not Iiis native city ; he was born at 



3.-0 



LAMENTATION OF THE PERUVIANS. 



The terroi's of the deseri's barren reign, 
And that strong arm which broke the chain 
Wherein je foully lay enslaved, 
Or that sublime Theocracy which paved 
Your way thro' ocean's vast domain, 
And on, far on to Canaan's emerald plain 
Led the Israelitish crowd 
With a pillar and a cloud ? 

Signs on earth and signs on high 
Prophesied thy destiny ; 
A trumpet's voice above thee rung, 
A starry sabre o'er thee hnng; 
Visions of fiery armies, redly flashing 
lu the mauy-color'd glare 
Of the setting orb of day ; 
And flaming chariots, fiercely dashing. 
Swept along the peopled air, 
In magnificent array: 
The temple doors, on brazen hinges crashing. 
Burst open with appalling sound, 
A woudrous radiance streaming round' 

"Our blood be ou our heads I" ye said: 

Such yonr awless imprecation: 
Full bitterly at length 'twas paid 
Upon yonr captive nation ! 
Arms of adverse legions bound thee. 
Plague and pestilence stood round thee; 
Seven weary suns had brighlen'd Syria's sky, 
Yet still was heard th' unceasing cry — 
"From south, north, east, and west, a voice, 
Woe unto thy sons and daughters ! 
Woe to Salem ! thou art lost 1" 
A sound divine 

Came from the sainted, secret, inmost shrine: 
"Let us go hence!" — and then a noise — 
The thunders of the parting Deity, 
Like the rush of countless waters, 
Like the murmur of a host ! 

Though now each glorious hope be blighted. 
Yet an hour shall come, when ye. 
Though scatter'd like the chaff, shall be 

Beneath one standard once again united; 
When your wandering race shall own, 
Prostrate at the dazzling throne 
Of your higli Almighty Lord, 
The wonders of His searchless word, 
Th' unfading splendors of His Son ! 



LAMENTATION OF THE PERUVIANS. 

The foes of the East have come do%vn on our shore. 
And the state and the strength of Peru are no more: 
f)h! cursed, doubly cursed, was that desolate hour. 
When they spread o'er our land in the pride of their 

power ! 
Lament for the Inca, the son of the Sun ; 
Atallba's fallen — Peru is undone ! 

Pizarro ! Pizarro ! though conquest may wing 

Her course round thy banners that wanton in air; 
Yet remorse to thy grief-stricken conscience shall 
cling. 

And shriek o'er thy banquets in sounds of despair. 
It shall toll tlu'c, that he who beholds from his throne 

The blond thou hast spilt and the deeds thou hast 
done, 
Shall mock at thy fear, and rejoice at thy groan, 

And arise in his wrath for the death of his son ! 
Why blew ye, ye gales, when the murderer came? 
Why fann'd ye the lire, and why fed ye the flame? 
WHiy sped ye his sails o'er the ocean so blue ? 
Are ye also combined for the fall of Peru ? 



And thou, whom no prayers, no entreaties can bend, 
Thy crimes and thy murders to heav'n shall ascend: 
For vengeance the ghosts of our forefathers call ; 
At thy threshold, Pizarro, in death shalt thou fall ! 
Ay, there— even there, in the halls of thy pride, 
Willi the blood of thine heart shall thy portals be 
dyed ! 

La I dark as the tempests that frown from the 

North, 
From the cloud of past time Manco Capac looks 

forth- 
Great Inca ! to whom the gay day-star gave birth. 
Whose throne is the heav'n, and whose foot -stool 

the earth — 
His visage is sad as the vapors that rise 
From the desolate mountain of fire to the skies ; 
But his eye flashes flame as the lightnings that 

streak 
Those volumes that shrond the volcano's high peak. 
Hark ! he speaks — bids us fly to our mountains, and 

cherish 
Bold freedom's last spark ere forever it perish ; 
Bids us leave these wild condors to prey on each 

other, 
Each to bathe his fierce beak in the gore of his 

brother ! 
This symbol we take of our godhead the Sun, 
And curse thee and thine for the deeds thou hast 

done. 
May the curses pursue thee of those thou hast slain, 
Of those that have fallen in war on the plain, 
When we went forth to greet ye — but foully ye 

threw 
Your dark shots of death on the sous of Peru. 
May the curse of the widow — the curse of the brave— 
The curse of the fatherless, cleave to thy grave ! 
And the words which they spake with their last 

dying breath 
Embitter the pangs and the tortures of death ! 

May he that assists be childless and poor. 

With famine behind him. and death at his door: 

May his nights be all sleepless, his days spent alone, 

And ne'er may he list to a voice but his own ! 

Or, if he shall sleep, in his dreams may he view 

The ghost of our Inca, the fiends of Peru : 

May the flames of destruction that here he naa 

sjiread 
Be tenfold rcturn'd on his murderous head! 



SHORT EULOGIUM ON HOMER. 

Immortal bard ! thy warlike lay 
Demands the greenest, brightest bay, 

Tliat ever wreathed the brow 
Of minstrel bending o'er his lyre. 
With ardent hand and soul of fire, 

Or then, or since, or now ! 



"A SISTER, SWEET ENDEARING 
NAME!" 

"Wliy slioiild we mourn for the blest ?"—BVKON. 

A BiQTKR, sweet endearing name! 

Beneath this tombstone sleeps ; 
A brother (who such tears could blame ?) 

lu pensive anguish weeps. 

I saw her when in health she wore 

A soft and matchless grace. 
And sportive pleasures wanton'd o'er 

The dimples of her face. 



•THE SUN GOES DOWN IN THE DAEK BLUE MAIN." 



3.-.1 



I saw her when the icy wind 

Of sickness froze her bUjoni ; 
I saw her (biUei-est stinlce !) cunsign'd 

To tliat cold cell— the tomb ! 

Oh '. when I heard the crumbling mould 

Upon her coftin fall, 
And thought within nhe lay so cold. 

And knew that worms would crawl 

O'er her sweet cheek's once lovely dye, ■* 
I shucUlev'd as I lurn'd , , 

From the sad spot, and in mine eye • • 
The full warm tear-drop buru'd. ■ 

,\<jain I come— again I feel 

Keflection's poignant sting. 
As I retrace my sister's form, 

And back her image bring. 

Herself I cannot — from the sod 

She will not rise again ; 
But this sweet thonglit, "She rests with God, 

Kelieves a brother's pain. 



'•THE SUN GOES DOWN IN THE 
DARK BLUE MAIN." 

*' Irreparublle tempus." — VIEOIL. 

TiiK snu goes down in the dark blue main, 

To rise the brighter to-morrow ; 
But oh ! what charm can restore again 

Those days uow cousigu'd to sorrow ? 

The moon goes down on the calm still night. 
To rise sweeter than when she parted ; 

But oh! what charm can restore the liglit 
Of joy to the broken-hearted-? 

Tlie blossoms depart iu the wintry hour. 

To rise in vernal gloiy ; 
But oh I what charm can restore the flower 

Of youth to the old and hoary ? 



'STILL, MUTE, AND MOTIONLESS 
SHE LIES." 

*'BeUe en sa fleur d'adoleacsnce." — BEHQL'iy. 
"Lovely iu deutli the beauteous ruin lay." — YOUXG. 

Still, mute, and motionless she lies, 
The mist of death has veil'd her eyes. 
And is that biight-red lip so pale. 
Whose hue was fresheu'd by a gale 
More sweet than summer e'er could bring 
To fan her flowers with balmy wing! 
Thy breath, the summer gale, is fled, 
And leaves thy lip, tlie flower, decay'd. 
When I was young, with fost'riug care 
I rear'd a tulip bright and fair. 
And saw its lovely leaves expand^ 
The labor of my infant hand. 
But winter came— its varied dye 
Each morn grew fainter to mine eye ; 
Till, with'ring, it was bright no more. 
Nor bloom'd as it was wont before : 
And gazing there in boyish grief, 
Upon the ckill and alter'd leaf, 
"Alas! sweet flower," I cried in vain, 
"Would I could bid thee blush again!" 
So now, "Return, thou crimson dye, 
To Celia's lip!" I wildlv cry; 
28 " 



And steal npon my hopeless view, 
And flush it with reviving hue. 
Soft as the early vermeil given 
To the dim paleness of the heaven 
When slowly gaining (ui the siglit. 
It breaks upon the cheerless white. 
It is an idle wish — a dream — 
1 may not see the glazed eye beam; 
I may not warm the damps of death, 
Or link again the seatter'd wreath; 
Array in leaves the wintry scene. 
Or make pareh'd Afric's deserts green ; 
Replace the rose-bud on the tree. 
Or breathe the breath of lil'e in thee. 



"OH! NEVER MAY FROWNS AND 
DISSENSION MOLEST." 

"Ipse meiqus 
Ante Laiem proprium."— IIOHACE. 

On ! never may frowns and dissension molest 
The pleasure I find at the social hearth; 

A pleasure the dearest— the purest— the best 
Of all that are found or enjoy'd ou the earth ! 

For who could e'er traverse this valley of tears, 
Without the dear comforts of frieudship and home ; 

And bear all the dark disappointments and feais, 
Which chill most of our joys and annihilate some? 

Vain, bootless pursuers of honor and fame ! 

'Tis idle to tell ye, what soon ye must prove- 
That honor's a bauble, and glory a name, 

When put iu the balance with friendship and loye. 

For when by fruition their pleasure is gone. 
We think of them no more— they but charm for i. 
while ; 

When the objects of love and aflfection are flown. 
With pleasure we cling to their memories still! 



ON A DEAD ENEMY. 

" Non odi mortuum."— CICEEO. 

I CAME in haste with cursing breath. 

And heart of hardest; steel ; 
But when I saw thee cold in death, 

I felt as man should feel. 

For when I look upon that face. 
That cold, unheediiig, frigid brow. 

Where neither rage nor fear has place. 
By Heaven ! I cannot hate thee now ! 



LINES.* 

"Cur pendet tacita fistula cum lyra?" — HORACE. 

W'liENCi? is it, friend, that thine enchanting lyre 
Of wizard charm, should thus in silence lie? 

Ah! why not boldly sweep its chords of Are, 
Afid rouse to life its latent harmony? 

Thy fancy, fresh, exuberant, boundless, wild, 
Like the rich herbage of thy Plata's shore. 

By Song's resistless witchery beguiled 
Would then transport us, since it charm'd before ! 

* Occasioned by hearing an ardent and beautiful description of 
the scenery of Southern America given by a gentleman whom the 
author persuaded to put his ideas into the lanjuase of poetry. 



THE DUKE OF ALVA'S OBSERVATION ON KINGS.— TO 



For if thy vivid thoughts possess'd a spell, 
Which chain'd our ei\rs, and fix'd attention's gaze, 

As at the social board we heard thee tell 
Of Chili's woods and Orellaua's maze— 

How will they, deck'd in Song's enlivening grace, 
Demand our piai^^e, with added beauties told; 

How in thy potent language shall we trace 
Those thoughts more vigorous and those word.'* 
more bold ! 



THE DUKE OF ALVA'S OBSERVATION 
ON KINGS.* 

KiN(jB, when to private audience they descend, 
And make tlie baftled courtier their prey, 

Do use an orange, as they treat a friend — 
Extract the juice, and cast the rind away. 

When tliou art favor'd by thy sovereign's eye, 
Let not his glance thine inmost thoughts discover; 

Or lie will scan thee through, and lay thee by, 
Like some old book which he has read all over. 



"AH! YES, THE LIP MAY FAINTLY 
SMILE." 

An! yes, the lip may faintly smile, 
Tlie eye may sparkle for a while; 
But never from that witlier'd heart 
Tlie consciousness of ill shall part ! 

That glance, that smile of papeing light, 
Are as the rainbow of the night; 
But seldom seen, it. dares to bloom 
Upon the bosom of the gloom. 

Its tints are sad and coldly pnle, 
Dim-glimmering thro' their misty veil; 
Unlike the ardent hues which play 
Along the flowery bow of day. 

The moonbeams sink in dark-robed shades, 
Too soon the airy vision fades; 
And double night returns, to shroud 
The volumes of the showery cloud. 



"THOU CAMEST TO THY COWER, 
MY LOVE." 

" Virgo ogrcgia forma."- TF.nExrn. 

Tnou earnest to thy bower, my love, across the 
musky grove. 

To fan thy blooming charms within the coolness of 
the shade ; 

Thy locks were like a midnight cloud with silver 
moonbeams wove,t 

And o'er thy face the varying tints of youthful pas- 
sion play'd. 

Thy breath was like the sandal -wood that casts a 

ricli perfume. 
Thy blue eyes mock'd the lotos in the uoouday of 

his bloom ; 



* See D'laranli'a " Curiosities of Litcrnture." 

t A simile elicited from tlie songs of JuyaJeva, the Horace of 
Imlia. 



Thy cheeks were like the beamy flush that gilds 

the breaking day, 
And in th' ambrosia of thy smiles the god of 

rapture lay.* 

Fair as the cairba-stone art thou, that stone of daz- 
zling white, t 

Ere yet unholy flngers changed its milk-white hue 
to-night ; 

And lovelier than the loveliest glance from Even's 
placid star, 

Aud brighter than the sea of gold,t the gorgeous 
Himsagar. 

In high Mohammed's boundless heaven Al Caw- 

ihor's stream may play. 
The fount of youth may siiarkling gush beneath 

the western ray ;§ 
Aud Tasnim's wave iu crystal cups may glow with 

musk and wine, 
But oh ! their lustre could not match cue beauteous 

tear of thine ! 



TO . 

Ant) shall we say the rose is sweet. 
Nor grant that claim to thee, 

In whom the loveliest virtues meet 
In social harmony f 

And shall we call the lily pure, 
Nor gi'ant that claim to thee, 

Whose taintless, spotless soul is, sure. 
The shrine of purity? 

And shall we say the sun is l)right, 
Nor grant tliat claim to thee, 

Whose form and mind with equal light 
B )th beam so radiantlv? 



THE PASSIONS. 

'* You liuve passions in your heart — scorpions ; thoy sleep now- 
bcware how you awaken tliem ! tliey will sting you even to death .' 

—Mijsterles of Uduljiho, vol. iii. 

Brvvarr, beware, ere thou takest 

The draught of misery ! 
Beware, beware ere thou wakest 

The scorpions that sleep iu thee ! 

The woes which thou canst not number, 

As yet are wrapt iu sleep ; 
Yet oh ! yet they slumber, 

Bnt their slumbers are not deej). 

Yet oh ! yet while the rancor 

Of hate has no place in thee, 
While thy buoyant soul has an anchor 

In youth's bright tranquil sea: 

Yet oh ! yet while the blossom 

Of hope is blooming fair, 
Willie the beam of bliss lights thy bosom — 

Oh! rouse not the serpent there! 

For bitter thy tears will trickle 

'Neath misery's heavy load, 
When the world has put in its sickle 

To the crop which fancy sow'd. 

* Vide Horace's ode, *' Pulchris E.XCUBAT iu gonis." 
+ t'l'rfe Sale's "Koran." 
i See Sir William .Tones on Eastern plants. 

§ The fabled fountain of youth in the Buhamn.^, in search of wliic 
Juun Poncj de Leon discovered Florida. 



THE HIGH-PKIEST TO ALEXANDER.— THE DYING CHRISTIAN. 



353 



When tlie world has rent the cable 

Thai l)oand thee to the shore, 
And liuinch'd thcc weak and unable 

To bear the billow's roar ; 

Then the slightest touch will waken 
Those pangs that will always grieve thcc, 

And thy soul will be fiercely shaken 
With storms that will never leave thee 1 

So beware, beware, ere thou takest 

The draught of misery ! 
Beware, Ijeware, ere thou wnkest 

The scorpions that sleep iu thee ! 



TOE HIGH-PRIEST TO ALEXANDER. 

" Dervame en tndo el orbe de la tierra 
Las annas, el furor, y niieva guerra." 

ta Araucana, Canto xvi. 

Go forth, thou man of force ! 

The world is all thine own ; 
Before thy dreadful course 
Shall totter every throne. 
Let India's jewels glow 

Upon thy diadem : 
Go, forth to conquest go, 
But spare Jerusalem. 

For the God of gods, which liveth 

Through all eternity, 
'Tis He alone which giveth 

And taketh victory : 
'Tis He the bow that blasteth. 

And breaketh the proud one's quiver; 
And the Lord of armies restetli 
In His Holy of Holies forever ! 

For God is Salem's spear. 

And God is Salem's sword ; 
AVhat mortal man shall dare 
To combat with the Lord ? 
Every knee shall bow 

Before His awful sight ; 
Every thought sink low 
Before the Lord of might. 

For the God of gods, which liveth 

Through all eternity, 
'Tis He alone which giveth 

And taketh victory: 
'Tis He the bow that blasteth, 

And breaketh the proud one's quiver; 
And the Lord of armies resteth 
Iu His Holy of Holies forever! 



"THE DEW, WITH WHICH THE 
EARLY MEAD IS DREST. ' 

** Spes nunquam implenda." — LUCRETIUS. 

The dew, with which the early mead is drest, 
Which fell by night inaudible and soft, 

Mocks the foil'd eye that would its hues arrest, 
Thatglauce and change so quickly and so oft. 

So iu this fruitless sublunnry waste. 
This trance of life, this unsubstantial show. 

Each hope we grasp at flies, to be replaced 
By oue as fair and as fallacious too. 

His limbs encased in aromatic wax. 
The jocund bee hies home his hoard to All : 

On human joys there lies the heavy tax 
Of hope unrealized, and beck'uiug still. 



But why with earth's vile fuel should we feed 
Those hopes which Heaveu, aud Heavea alone, 
should claim ? 

Why sliould we lean upou a broken reed, 
Or chase a meteor's evanescent flame? 

O man ! relinquish Passion's baleful joys. 
And bend at Virtue's bright unsullied shrine ; 

Oh ! learu her chaste and hallow'd glow to prize. 
Pure — uualloy'd — iueflable — divine ! 



ON THE jMOONLIGHT SHINING UPON 
A FRIEND'S GRAVE. 

Snow not, O moon! with pure and liquid beam, 
That mournful spot, where Memory fears to tread; 

Glance on the grove, or qniver iu the stream. 
Or tip the hills— but shine not on the dead: 

It wounds the lonely heurts that still survive, 
Aud after buried friends arc doom'd to live. 



A CONTRAST. 

Dost ask why Laura's soul is riv'u 
By pangs her prudence can't command? 

To oue who heeds not she has giv'u 
Her heart, alas ! loithout her hand. 

But Chloe claims our sympathy, 
To wealth a martyr aud a slave; 

For when the knot she dared to tie, 
Her hand without her heart she gave. 



EPIGRAM. 

A SAINT by soldiers fetter'd lay ; 
Au angel took his bonds away. 
An angel put the chains on me; 
And 'tis a soldier sets me free.* 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN. 

" It cannot die, it cannot stay. 
But leaves its darlten'd dust behind."— BYP.ON. 

I DIE— my limbs with icy feeling 

Bespeak that Death is uear ; 
His frozen hand each pulse is stealing; 

Yet still I do not fear ! 

There is a hope— not frail as that 
Which rests on human things — 

The hope of au immortal state, 
Aud with the Kiug of kings ! 

And ye may gaze upou my brow, 

Which is not sad, tho' pale ; 
These hope-illumined features show 

But little to bewail. 

Death should not chase the wonted bloom 

From off" the Christian's face ; 
111 prelude of the bliss to come, 

Prepared by heavenly grace. 



* The reader must suppose a young man deeply in love, but per- 
suaded by a friend in the army to lead a military life, and forget 
the charms of the siren wlio cramped the vi^or of his soul. 



554 



OH! YE WILD WINDS, THAT ROAR AND RAVE." 



Liimeiit !io more — uo longer weep 
That I depart, from men ; 

Brief is the intermediate sleep, 
And bliss awaits me then ! 



"THOSE WORLDLY GOODS THAT, DIS- 
TANT, SEEM." 

Those worldly goods that, distant, seem 
With every joy and bliss to teem, 
Are spurn'd as trivial when possess'd, 
And, when acquired, delight us least: 
As torrent-rainbows,* which appear 
Still dwindling as we still draw uear; 
And yet contracting on the eye, 
Till the bright circling colors die. 



"HOW GAYLY SINKS THE GORGEOUS 
SUN WITHIN HIS GOLDEN BED." 

*' Tu fais naitre la lumi^re 
Pu sein de I'obscuiitfi."— KOUSSEAU. 

How gayly sinks the gorgeous sun within his golden 

bed, 
As heaven's immortal azure glows and deepens into 

red ! 
How gayly shines the buruish'd main beneath that 

living light. 
And trembles with his million waves magnificently 

bright ! 
But ah ! how soon that orb of day must close his 

burning eye, 
And night, in sable pall array'd, involve j'on lovely 

sky: 
E'en thus in life our fairest scenes are preludes to 

our woe ; 
For fleeting as that glorious beam is happiness 

below. 
But what? though evil fates may frown upon our 

mortal birth, 
Yet Hope shall be the star that lights our night of 

grief on earth : 
And she shall point to sweeter morns, when brighter 

suns shall rise, 
And spread the radiance of their rays o'er earth, and 

sea, and skies ! 



oii: 



YE WILD WINDS, THAT ROAR 
AND RAVE." 



' It is the great army of the dead returning on the northern blast." 
Song of t/u luee JUarda in Uasian. 

Oil ! ye wild winds, that roar and rave 
Around the headland's stormy brow, 

That toss and heave the Baltic wave, 
And bid the sounding forest bow, 



* The term " rainbows " is not exactly applicable here, as 1 mean 
the bow after it has assumed the circular figure. " The sun shining 
full upon it (viz., the Fall of StaubbadO formed toward the bottom 
of the full a miniature rainbow extremely bright : while I stood at 
some distance, the rainbow assumed a semicircular figure ; us I ap- 
proached, the extreme points gradually coincided, and formed a 
complete circle of the most lively and brilliant colors. In order to 
have a still fairer Tiew, I ventured nearer and nearer, the circle at 
the same time becoming smaller and smaller : and as I stood quite 
under the full, it suddenly disappeared." — COXE'S Switzf-rland, 



Whence is your course ? and do ye bear 
The sigh of other woi-lds along, 

"When through the dark immense of air 
Ye rush iu tempests loud and strong ? 

Methinks, upon your moaning course 

I hear the army of the dead ; 
Each on his own invisible horse. 

Triumphing iu his trackless tread. 

For when the moon conceals her ray, 
And midnight spreads her darkest veil, 

Borne on the air, and far away, 
Upon the eddying blasts they sail. 

Then, then their thin and feeble bands 
Along the echoing winds are roU'd; 

The bodiless tribes of other lands! 
The formless, misty sous of old I 

And then at times their wailings rise, 
The shrilly wailings of the grave! 

And mingle with the mndden'd skies. 
The rush of wind, and roar of wave. 

Heard you that sound? It was the hum 

Of the innumerable host, 
As down the northern sky they come, 

Lamenting o'er their glories lost. 

Now for a space each shadowy king. 
Who sway'd of old some mighty realm, 

Mounts on the tempest's squally wing, 
And grimly frowns thro' barred helm. 

Now each dim ghost, with awful yells, 
Upreara on high his cloudy form; 

And with his feeble accent swells 
The hundred voices of the storm. 

Why leave ye thus the narrow cell. 
Ye lords of night and anarchy I 

Yciiir robes the vapors of the dell, 
Your swords the meteors of the sky? 

Your bones are whitening on the heath ; 

Your fame is in the minds of men : 
And would ye break the sleep of death, 

That ye might live to war again ? 



SWITZERLAND. 

"Tons les objets de mon amour, 
Nos clairs ruisssaux, 
Nos hameaux, 
Nos coteaux, 
Nos montognes ?" 

Ranz des VacJiet. 

With Memory's eye. 
Thou land of joy ! 

I view thy cliffs once more; 
And tho' thy plaius 
Bed slaughter stains, 

'Tis Freedom's blessed gore. 

Thy woody dells, 
And shadowy fells, 

E.xceed a monarch's halls ; 
Thy pine-clad hills. 
And gushing rills. 

And foaming water-falls. 

The Gallic foe 

Has work'd thee woe, 



A GLANCE.— "OH! WERE THIS HEART OF HARDEST STEEL." 



35: 



But tnimpet never scared thee; 
How could he think 
That thou wouldst !^h^ink, 

With all thy rocks to guard thee? 

E'en now the Gaul, 
That wrought thy fall, 

At his own triumph wonders ; 
So long the strife 
For death and life, 

So loud our rival thunders ! 

Oh ! when shall Time 
Avenge the crime, 

And to our rights restore us? 
And bid the Seine 
Be choked with slain, 

And Paris quake before us? 



A GLANCE. 

Lativ ! yon threw a glance at me, 

I knew its meaning well ; 
He who has loved, and only he, 

Its mysteries can tell : 
That hieroglyphic of the brain, 
Which none but Cupid's priests explain. 



BABYLON. 

*' Come dowri, and sit in tlie dust, O virgin dauTliter of Babylon, 
Git on tlie ground ; tliere is no tin-one." — Isaiah xlvii.. 1. 

Bow, daughter of Babylon, bow thee to dust! 
Thiue heart shall be quell'd, and thy pride shall be 

crush'd : 
Weep, Babylon, weep! for thy splendor is past; 
Aud they come like the storm in the day of the blast. 

Howl, desolate Babylon, lost one and lone ! 

Aud bind thee iu sackcloth — for where is th}' throne? 

Like a wine -press iu wrath will I trample thee 

down, 
Aud rend from thy temples the pride of thy crown. 

Though thy streets be a hundred, thy gates be all 

brass, 
Yet thy proud ones of war shall be wither'd like 

grass ; 
Thy gates shall be broken, thy strength he laid low, 
And thy stieets shall resouud to the shouts of the 

foe I 

Though thy chariots of power on thy battlements 

bound. 
And the grandeur of waters encompass thee round; 
Yet thy walls shall be shaken, thy waters shall fail. 
Thy matrous shall shriek, and thy king shall he 

pale. 

The terrible day of thy fall is at hand, 
When my rage shall descend on the tiice of thy land ; 
The lances are pointed, the keen sword is bared. 
The shields are auoiuted,t the helmets prepared. 

I call upon Cyrus! He comes from afar. 
And the armies of nations are gather'd to war: 
With the blood of thy children his path shall be red, 
And the bright sun of conquest shall blaze o'er his 
head ! 



* None but tlie priests could interpret tlie Egyptian liieroglyplii 
+ ■' Arise, yo princes, and anoint tlie shield."— /«(jia4 xxi., 5. 



Thou glory of kingdoms ! thy princes are drunk,* 
But their loins shall be loosed, and their hearts 

shall be sunk ; 
They shall crouch to the dust, and be couutcd as 

slaves, 
At the roll of his wheels, like the rushing of waves! 

For I am the Lord, who have mightily spann'd 
The breadth of the heavens, aud the sea and the 

land ; 
And the mountaius shall flow at my presence,t and 

earth 
Shall reel to aud fro in the glance of my wrath ! 

Your proud domes of cedar on earth shall be thrown. 

And the rank grass shall wave o"er the lonely hearth- 
stone ; 

Aud your sons and your sires aud your daughters 
shall bleed 

By the barbarous hands of the murdering Mede ! 

I will sweep ye away in destruction and death, 
As the whirlwind that scatters the chafT with its 

breath ; 
Aud the fixnes of your gods shall be sprinkled with 

gore, 
And the course of your stieaui shall be heard of no 

more It 

There the wandering Arab shall ne'er pitch his 

tent, 
But the beasts of the desert shall wail and lament ; 
In their desolate houses the dragons shall lie, 
And the satyrs shall dauce, aud the bittern shall 

cry !§ 



OH! WERE THLS HEART OF HARD- 
EST STEEL." 

" Vultus nimium lubricus aspici." — HORACE. 

On ! were this heart of hardest steel, 

That steel should yield to thee ; 
Aud tho' naught else could make it feel, 

'Twould melt thy form to see : 
That eye, that cheek, that lip, possess 
Such fascinating loveliness ! 

The first may claim whatever praise 

By amorous bard is paid ; 
In the dark lightning of its rays 

I view thy soul porti'ay'd : 
And in that soul what light must be. 
When it imparts so bounteously ! 

Thy cheek, e'en in its humblest bloom. 

Like rich carnation glows ; 
But when the mantling blushes come, 

How fades the brightest rose I 
Dead the tine hues, the beauty dead. 
And coarse the velvet of its head. 

Th' anemone's deep crimson dj-e 

Beams on thy lip's red charm ; 
Thy voice is more than harmouj', 

Thy breath as sweet as balm : 
But still more balmy would it be. 
Would it but waft one sigh for me. 



* " I will make drunk her pr'mces."— Jeremiah li., 57. 

t '"I'lie mountains melted from before the Lord."— Judges v., 5. 
"Oh that the mountains mijtlit tlow down at thy presence V'—Imi- 
ah Ixiv., 1 ; and again, ver. 3, " The mountains flowed do^vn at thy 
l)resenee." 

X '*A drought is upon her waters." — Jeremiah 1., 38. 

§ Vide Isaiah xiii,, *1Q. 



35G 



THE SLIGHTED LOVER.— SUNDAY MOBS. 



To gaze ou thee is ecstasy, 

Is ecstasy — but paiu : 
Such is thy lip, thy cheek, thine eye, 

I gaze, and gaze again : 
Oh ! might those three bright features bear 
For me a kiss— a blush— a tear! 



THE SLIGHTED LOVER. 

"Spes animi credula mutui."— IIOIiACE. 

I LOVED a woman, and too fondly thought 
Tlie vows she made were constant aud sincere; 

But now, alas I in agony am taught, 
That she is faithless— I no longer dear ! 

Why was I frenzied when her bright black eye, 
With ray pernicious, flash'd upon my gaze? 

Why did I burn with feverish ecstasy. 
Stung with her scorn, aud ravish'd with her praise? 

Would that her loveliness of form and mind 
Had only kindled friendship's calmer glow ! 

Then had I been more tranquil snd resign'd, 
Aud her neglect had never touch'd me so. 

But with such peerless charms before his sight. 

Who would not own resistless Love's control? 
Feel the deep thrilling of intense delight, 

Aud lose at once the balance of his soul ? 

Such was my fate— one sole enchanting hope. 

One darling object from all else I chose: 
Th.at hope is gone- its blighted blossoms droop ; 
Aud where shall hopeless passion find repose? 



CEASE, 



RAILER, cease: UNTHINK- 
ING MAN." 



"Cur in ainicorum vitiis tarn cemis aciitum, 
Quam aut aquila, aut ser])ciis Epidauritis V" 

HOHACE. 

Cease, railer, cease! unthinking man. 
Is every virtue found in thee ? 

How plain another's faults we scan. 
Our owu how faintly do we see ! 

So one who i-oves o'er marshy ground 
When evening fogs the scene obscure, 

Sees vapor hang on all things round, 
And falsely deems his station pure ! 



ANACREONTIC. 

" Insantre juvat." — IIORACE. 

Let others of wealth and emolument dream. 
At profits exult, and at losses rejjine; 

Far different my object, far different my theme- 
Warm love aud frank friendship, aud roses and 
wine ! 

Let other dull clods, without fancy or fire, 
Give my dear friend of Teos a mere poet's due; 

Discarding his morals, his fancy admire, 
I deem him a bard, aud a moralist too. 

Ye sober, ye specious, ye sage, ye discreet ! 

Your joys in perspective I never could brook; 
With rapture I seize on whatever is sweet, 

Real, positive, present — no further I look. 



I will not be fetter'd by maxims or duties : 
The cold charms of ethics I wholly despise : 

My hours glide along amid bottles and beauties— 
There's nothing to match with old crust aud bright 
eyes! 

I vary my cups as his fashions the dandy. 
And one day the creatures of gin haunt my brain ; 

And the next I depute the same office to brandy; 
And so on, aud so ou, aud the same round again ! 

I'm a flighty young spark— but I deem myself blest, 
Aud as happy a soul as my clerical brother ; 

Thu' the wish of a moment's first half's dispossest 
Of its sway o'er my mind, by the wish of the other. 

And thou who this wild mode of living despisest. 
Sententious aud grave, of thy apojihthcgms boast. 

Cry shame of my nostrums; but I kuow who's 
wisest. 
Makes the best use of life, aud enjoys it the most. 



"IN WINTER'S DULL AND CHEER- 
LESS REIGN." 

*' D^me supcrcilio iiubem." — ItoKACE. 

In winter's dull and cheerless reign, 
What flower could ever glow? 

Beneath the ice of thy disdain, 
What song could ever flow ? 

Eestore thy smile I — beneath its ray 
The flower of verse shall rise ; 

And all the ice that fi'oze my lay 
Be melted by thine eyes ! 



SUNDAY MOBS. 

Tuo' we at times amid the mob may find 
A beauteous face, with many a charm combined; 
Yet still it wants the signature of mind. 
On such a face no fine expression dwells. 
That eye no inborn dignity reveals; 
Tho' bright its jetty orb, as all may see. 
The glance is vacant— has no charms for mo. 
When Sunday's sun is sinking in the west, 
Our streets all swarm with numbers gayly drest ; 
Prank'd out in ribbons, and iu silks array'd, 
To catch the eyes of passing sons of trade. 
Then giggling milliners swim pertly by. 
Obliquely glancing with a roguish eye; 
With short and airy gait they trip along. 
And vulgar volubility of tongue ; 
Their minds well pictured iu their every tread, 
And that slight backward tossing of the head: 
But no idea, 'faith, that harbors there, 
Is independent of a stomacher. 
Their metaphors from gowus and caps are sought. 
And stays incorporate with every thought : 
Aud if iu passing them I can but spare 
A moment's glance— far better thrown elsewhere— 
They deem my admiration caught, nor wist 
They turn it on an ancient fabulist. 
Who aptly pictured, in the jackdaw's theft. 
These pert aspirers of their wits bereft. 
To these, as well as any under heaven, 
A woll-form'd set of features may be given : 
But Where's the halo? where's the spell diviue? 
Aud the sweet, modest, captivating mien ? 
"Those tenderer tints that shun the careless eye,'" 
Where are they? — far from these low grouns thej 
fly: 



PHRENOLOGY.— LOVE. 



Yo», far iucleed I — for here you cannot trace 
The flash of intellect along the face ; 
No vermeil blush e'er spreads its lovely dye, 
Herald of genuine sensibility. 
These extras, e'eu in beauty's absence, a chai'iu ; 
But when combined with beauty, bow they warm I 
These are the charms that will not be withstood, 
Sure signs of generous birth and gentle blood. 
There is a something I cannot describe, 
Beyond th' all-gaining influence of a bribe. 
Which stamps the lady iu the meanest rout, 
And by its sure criterion marks her out; 
Pervades each feature, thro' each actiou flows, 
And lends a charm to every thing she does ; 
Which not the weeds of Irns could disguise, 
And soon detected wheresoe'er it lies. 



PHRENOLOGY. 

"Qiiorsum lia'c tain putiila tendunt ?" — HOHACE. 

A onuiocrs sect's iu vogue, who deem the soul 

Of man is legible upon his poll: 

Give them a squint at yonder doctor's pate. 

And they'll soon tell you why he dines on plate : 

Ask why you bustling statesman, who for years 

Has pour'd his speeches in the senate's ears. 

The' always iu a politician's sweat. 

Has hardly grasp'd the seals of office yet? 

The problem gravels me — the man's possest 

Of talents— this his many schemes attest. 

The drawback, what?— they tell me, looking big, 

"His skull was never moulded for intrigue." 

Whene'er a culprit has consigu'd his breath. 

And proved the Scripture adage — death for death. 

With peering eyes the zealous throng appear, 

To see if murder juts behind his ear. 

So far 'tis barely plausible: — but stay! 

I ne'er can muster brass enough to say 

That a rude lump, or bunch too prominent. 

Is a bad symbol of a vicious bent. 

But wheu the sages strike another key, 

Consorting things that never will agree, 

And my consistency of conduct rate 

By inequalities upon my pate,* 

And make an inharmonious bump the test 

Of my delight in coucordt — 'tis at best 

An awkward system, and not overwise, 

And badly built on incoherencies. 

Another lustrum will behold our youth. 

With eager souls all panting after truth, 

Shrewd Spurzheim's visionary pages turn, 

And, with Napoleon's bust before them, learn 

Without tiie agency of what small bone 

Quicklime had ne'er upon a host been throwu : 

In what rough rise a trivial sink had saved 

The towus he burnt, the nations he enslaved. t 

E'en now, when Harold's minstrel left the scene. 

Where such a brilliant meteor he had been. 

Thus with the same offlcionsness of pains. 

Gazettes announced the volume of his brains. 

Rise, sons of Science and Invention, rise! 

Make some new inroad on the starry skies; 

Draw from the main some truths unknown before, 

Rummage the strata, every nook explore. 

To lead mankind from this fantastic lore; 

Solve the long-doubted problems pending still, 

And these few blanks in nature's annals fill: 

Tell us why Saturn rolls begirt with flame? 

Whence the red depth of Mars's aspect came ? 

Are the dark tracts the silver moon displays 

Dusk with the gloom of caverns or of seas ? 



* The bump of firmness. 
J The Corsican's organ of dcstructi 
prominent. 



+ Tlie Inimp of tune, 
must have been vcv 



Think ye, with Olbers, that her glow intense. 
Erst deem'd volcanic, is reflected hence? 
Are the black spots, which in yon sun appear 
Long vistas thro' his flaming atmosphere. 
Rents in his flery robe, thro' which the eye 
Gains access to his secret sanctuary? 
Or may we that hypothesis explode, 
Led by your science nearer to our God ? 
Shall we, with Glasgow's learned Watt, maintain 
That you bright bow is not produced by rain? 
Or deem the theory but ill surmised. 
And call it light (as Brewster) polarized? 
Tell when the clouds their fleecy load resign. 
How the frail nitre-moulded points combine; 
What secret cause, wheu heaven and ocean greet, 
Commands their close, or dictates their retreat.* 
On you we rest, to check th' encroaching sway 
This outre science gaius from day to day; 
Investigation's blood-hound scent employ 
On themes more worthy of our scrutiny ; 
Rob this attractive magnet of its force. 
And check this torrent's inundating course. 



LOVE. 
I. 

Ai.MiGCTv Love I whose nameless pow'r 
This glowing heart defines too well. 

Whose presence cheers each fleeting hour, 
Whose silken bonds our souls compel, 
Dift'using such a sainted spell, 

As gilds our being with the light 
Of transport and of rapturous bliss, 

And almost seeming to unite 
The joys of other worlds to this, 
The heavenly smile, the rosy kiss; — 

Eefc)re whose blaze my spirits shrink, 
My senses all are wrapt in thee. 

Thy force I own too much, to think 
(So full, so great thine ecstasy) 
That thou art less than deity ! 

Thy golden chains embrace the land. 
The starry sky, the dark blue main ; 

And at the voice of thy command 
(So vast, so boundless is thy reign) 
All nature springs to life again ! 

IL 

The glittering fly, the wondrous things 
That microscopic art descries; 

The lion of the waste, which springs, 
Bounding upon his enemies; 

The mighty sea-snake of the storm. 

The vorticella's viewless form,t . 

The vast leviathan, which takes 
Ills pastime in the sounding floods ; 

The crafty elephant, which makes 
His haunts in Ceylon's spicy woods^ 

Alike confess thy magic sway. 

Thy soul-enchanting voice obey ! 

Oh ! whether thou, as bards have said, 
Of bliss or pain the ])artial giver, 

Wingest thy shaft of pleasing dread 
From out thy well-stored golden quiver. 

O'er earth thy cherub wings extending. 

Thy sea-born mother's side attending;^ 



* The waterspout. 

t See Balcer on animalcuIiB. 



TO 



-SONG.— IMAGINATION.— THE OAK OF THE NORTH. 



Or else, ns Indian fubles say, 
Upon thine emerald lory riding, 

Throngli gardens, 'mid the restless piny 
Of fountains, iu the moonbeam gliding, 

'Mid sylph-like shapes of maidens dancing, 

Thy scarlet standard high advancing;— 

Thy fragrant bow of cane thou bendest,* 
Twanging the string of honey'd bees, 

And thence the flower-tipp'd arrow sendest, 
AVhich gives or robs the heart of etise ; 

Camdeo, or Cupid, oh be near 

To listen, and to grant my prayer! 



TO . 

The dew that sits upon the rose 
The brilliant hue beneath it shows; 
Nor can it hide the velvet dye 
O'er which it glitters tremblingly. 
The flne-wove veil tlirown o'er thy face. 
Betrays its bloom— thro' it we trace 
A loveliness, tho' veil'd, I'eveal'd, 
Too bright to be by ought conceal'd. 



SONG. 

To sit. beside a crystal spring, 
Cool'd by the passing zephyr's wing, 
And bend my every thought to thee. 
Is life, is bliss, is ecstasy ! 

And as within that spring I trace 
Each line, each featnre of my face ; 
The faithful mirror tells me true- 
It tells me that I think of yoxt! 



IMAGINATION. 

Prnr-NNiJi. source of rapturous pleasure, hail ! 
Whose inexhaustive stores can never fail ; 
Thou ardent inmate of the poet's brain, 
Bright as the sun and restless as the main, 
From all material Nature's stores at will 
Creating, blending, and arranging still; 
Things in themselves both beautiful and grand, 
Tleceive fresh lustre from thy kindling hand ; 
And even those whose abstract charms are few. 
Thy spell -like touch arrays in colors bright and 

new. 
Oh I thou art Poetry's informing sonl, 
Detach'd from thee she stagnates and is dull; 
She has no sweets without thee, and from thee 
Derives her magic and her majesty; 
Thou art th' essential adjunct of lier charms, 
'Tis by tliy aid that she transports and warms: 
Nor will I c"cr with that weak sect concur, 
Wlio on obscurity alone confer 
Thy misapi)lied and prostituted name — 
A false and spurious and ungrounded claim! — 
Construct a mass of thoughts uncouth and wild. 
Their words involved, and meaning quite exiled; 
A mazy labyrinth without a clue, 
Wherein they lose themselves and readers too; 
The crude abortions of a heated brain, 
Where sense and symmetry are sought iu vain ! 



See Sir WiUiam Jones's works, vol. vi., p. 313 ; 

'* He bends the luscious cano, and twists th^ string ; 
With bees how sweet, but nh ! linw keen the stiii^j ! 
lie with five flowrets tips tliy ruthless iliirts, 
Wliicli thro' iive senses pierce enraptured hearts." 



But images both bright and sorted well, 
And perspicuity, that crowning spell, 
Fervor chastised by judgment and by taste. 
And language vivid, elegant, and chaste — 
These form the poet; iu such garb array'd. 
Then, Fancy, all thy beauties are display'd; 
We feel thy loveliness and own thy sway. 
Confess thy magic pow'r, and praise the glowing lay! 



THE OAK OF THE NORTH. 

" Qua! quantum vertice ad auras 
^^tliereas, tanlum radice in Tartara tendit, 
Krj^o non byemes illam, non tiabra, neque imbres 
Convellunt ; immota nianet, multosque nepotes 
niulta viruni volvcus durando sa^eula vincit." 

Vn:GiI.. 

Tnou forest lord ! whose dcath'ess arms 

Full many an age of rolling time 
Have mock'd the madness of the storms, 

Unfaded in thy shadowy prime 
Thou livest still— and still shalt stay, 

Tho' the destroying tyrant bow 
The temple, and the towei', and lay 

The pomp and pride of empires low. 
And if thy stately form be riven 
And blasted by the fiery levin, 
Still dost thou give that giant front, 
Undaunted, to the pitiless brunt 

Of angry winds, that vainly rave ; 
And, like the scars by battle graven 

Upon the bosoms of the brave. 
The tokens of resistless heaven 

Deep in thy rugged breast are seen, 

The marks of frays that once have been ; 

The lightning's stroke, the whirlwind's force, 

Have marr'd thee in their furious course, 
But they have left thee unsubdued ; 

And if they bend thy crest awhile. 
Thou dost arise in might renew'd. 

Tameless in undimiiiish'd toil. 
Singly against an hostile host 

Conteniling, like th' immortal king. 
Who quell'd the Titans' impious boast 
With thunder, tho' he stood alone 
Defender of his starry throne. 
Dashing th' aspiring mountains down. 

Dark Ossa, like a powerless thing. 
And Pelion with his nodding pines; 

Then bound with adamantine chains, 
Where the glad sunlight never shines, 

The earth-born in eternal pains. 
Of many who were born with thee. 

Scarce now a thought survives to tell ; 
War hath ta'en some — their memory 

But faintly lives of those who fell : 
Even the conqueror's glorious name. 

That boasts a life beyond the tomb. 
Borne on the wings of rushing fame. 

May bow before the common doom, 
Before the measure of its praise 
Hath flll'd thy multitude of days. 

And ere the poet's hallow'd star, 

Kefulgent o'er his voiceless urn. 
Glance thro' the gloom of years so far. 

Its living tires may cease to burn. 
Thy mere existence shall be more 

Than others' immortality; 
The spirits of the great, who bore 

A sway on earth, and still would be 
Remember'd when they are not seen. 

Shall die like echoes on the wind. 
Nor leave of all that they have been 

In living hearts one thrill behind; 



THE OAK OF THE NORTH. 



3o'J 



Their very name.-i shall be forgot, 
Ancient of days! ere thuu art uot. 

The drnid's mystic harp, that hung 

So long upon thy stormy boughs, 
Mute as its master's magic tongue. 

Who slnmbereth in that deep repose, 
No earthly sound shall wake again, 

Nor glare of sacriticial tire. 
Nor howl of victims in their pain. 

Or the weird priestess in her ire, 
Ilath mingled with th' oblivious dust 

Of him who called its spirit forth, 
In those prophetic tones which husli'd 

The enraptured children of the north, 
Binding them with a holy fear, 
And smiting each enchanted ear 
With such a sound as seem'd to raise 
The hidden forms of future days: 
Sleep on I — no Roman foe alarms 

Your rest ; and over ye shall wave 
A guardian God's protecting arras, 

And flowers shall deck: your grassy grave ! 

And he who gazcth on thee now. 

Ere long shall lie as low as they; 
The daring heart, the intrepid brow. 
Not long can feel youth's joyous glow, 
The strength of life must soon decay. 
A few short years fleet swiftly by, 
And rayless is the sparliling eye, 
Mute the stern voice of high command, 
And still oppression's iron hand ; 
The lords of earth shall waste away 
Beneath the worm, and many a day 
Of wintry frost and summer sun. 
Ere yet thy uumber'd hours be done ; 
For thou art green and flourishing. 
The mountain-forest's stately king. 
Unshaken as the granite stone 
That stands thine everlasting throne. 

There was a tower, whose haughty head 

Erewhile rose darkly by thy side. 
But they are numbcr'd with the dead. 

Who ruled within its place of pride ; 
For time and overwhelming war 

Have crumbled it, and overthrown 
Bulwark, and battlement, and bar. 

Column, and arch, and sculptured stone ; 

Around thy base are rudely strewn 
The tokens of departed power. 

The wrecks of unrecorded fame 
Lie mouldering in the frequent sliower: 

But thou art there, the very same 
As when those hearts, which now are cold. 
First beat in triumiih to behold 
The shadow of its form, which fell 
At distance o'er the darken'd dell. 
No more the battle's black array 
Shall sternly meet the rising day ; 
No beacon-lire's disastrous light 
Flame fiercely in the perilous night. 
Forgotten is that fortress now, 

Deserted is the feudal hall. 
But here and tliere the red flowers blow 

Upon its bare and broken wall. 
And j'e may hear the night-wind moan 
Thro' shatter'd hearths with moss o'ergrown, 

Wild grasses wave above the gate ; 
And where the trumpets sung at morn, 
Tne tuneless night-bird dwells forlorn, 

And the unanswer'd ravens prate. 

Till silence is more desolate. 
For thou hast heard the clarion's breath 
Pour from thy heights its blast of death, 
AVhile gathering multitudes replied 

Defiance with a shout that hurl'd 



Bacli on their foes the curse of pride. 

And bended bows, and flags unfurl'd ; 
And swiftly from the hollow vale 
Their arrov\'y vengeance glanced, like hail. 
What time some fearless son of war, 
Emerging to the upper air, 
Gain'd the arm'd steep's embattled brows. 

Thro' angry swords around him waving, 
'Mid the leagued thousands of his foes. 

Their fury like a lion braving: 
And faster than the summer rain 
Stream'd forth the life-blood of the slain. 
Whom civil hate and feudal power 
Mingled in that tempestuous hour. 
Steeping thy sinewy roots, that drew 
Fresh vigor from that deadly dew. 
And still shall live— tho' monarchs fail; 

And those who waged the battle then 
Are made the marvel of a tale, 

To warm the hearts of future men. 
On such a sight did Cambria gaze, 

Wlien Freedom on that dismal day 
Saw Edward's haughty banners blaze 

Triumphant, and the dread array 
In the deep vales beneath her gleam. 

Then started from her ancient throne, 
That mighty song could not redeem 

Prom ruthless hands and hearts of stoue. 
While ages yield their fleeting breath, 

Art thou the only living thing 
On earth, which all-consuming death 

Blasts uot with his destroying wing? 
No! thou Shalt die! — tho' gloriously 

Those proud arms beat tlie azure air. 
Some hour in Time's dark womb shall see 

The strength they boast no longer there. 
Tho' to thy life, as to thy God's, 

Unnumber'd years are as a day, 
When He, who is eternal, nods, 

Thy mortal strength must pass away, 
Unconqner'd Pate, with viewless hand. 

Hath mark'd the moment of thy doom. 
For He, who could create, hath spann'd 

Thy being, and its hour shall come: 
Some thunderbolt more dread than all 

That ever scathed thee with tlieir Are, 
Arm'd with the force of heaven, shall fall 

Upon thee, and thou shalt expire! 
Or age, that curbs a giant's might, 

Sliall bow thee down and fade thy bloom. 
The last of all, the bitterest blight 

That chills our hearts, except the tomb. 
And then thou canst but faintly strive 

Against the foes thou has defied. 
Returning spring shall not revive 

The beauty of thy summer pride ; 
And the green earth no more shall sleep 

Beneath thy dark and stilly shade. 
Where silvery dews were wont to weep, 

And the red day-beam never stray'd, 
But flow'rets of the tenderest hue, 

That live not in the garish_ noon, 
Pale violets of a heavenly blue, 

Unfaded by the sultry sun. 
Unwearied by the blasts that shook 

Thy lofty head, securely throve. 
Nor heeded in that grassy nook 

The ceaseless wars that raged above. 
The revelling elves at noon of night 

Shall throng no more bcneatli thy boughs, 
When moonbeams shed a solemn light, 

And every star intensely glows; 
No verdant canopy shall screen 

Prom view the orgies of their race. 
But the blue heaven's unclouded sheen 

Shall pierce their secret dwelling-place, 
Tho' now the lavrock pours at morn. 

Shrined in thy leaves, his rapturous lay, 



3C0 



EXlIOlirATION TO THE GREEKS.— KING CHARLES'S VISION. 



Theu shnll the meanest songster scorn 

To hail thee, as he wings his way. 
The troubled eagle, when he flies 

Before the lightnings, and the wrath 
Of gathering winds and stormy skies, 

That darken o'er his cloudy path, 
With ruffled breast and angry eye 

Shall pass thee, and descend in haste 
Amid the sheltering bowers that lie 

Far down beneath the rolling blast. 
Thine awful voice, that swells on high 

Above the rushing of the north. 
Above the thunders of the sky, 

When midnight hurricanes come forth, 
Like some falTu conqueror's, who bewails 

His laurels torn, his humbled fame, 
Shall murmur to the passing gales 

At once thy glory and thy shame 1 



EXHORTATION TO THE GREEKS. 

"En ilia, ilia quam sscpe oiitastis, libcrtiis !" — Sallust. 

Akouse thee, O Greece! and remember the day. 
When the millions of Xerxes were quell'd ou their 

way ! 
Arouse thee, O Greece! let tlie pride of thy name 
Awake in thy bosom the light of thy fame ! 
Why hast thou shone in the temple of glory ? 

Why hast thou blazed iu those annals of fame? 

For know that the former bright page of thy story 

Proclaims but thy bondage and tells but thy 

shame : 

Proclaims from how high thon art fallen ! — how low 

Thou art plunged iu the dark gulf of thraldom and 

woe ! 
Arouse thee, O Greece ! from the weight of thy 
slumbers ! 
The chains are upon thee ! — arise from thy sleep ! 
Remember the time, when nor nations uor numbers 
Could break thy thick phalanx embodied and 
deep. 
Old Athens and Sparta remember the morning, 
When the swords of the Grecians were red to the 
hilt: 
And, the bright gem of conquest her chaplet adorn- 
ing, 
Platffia rejoiced at the blood that ye spilt! 
Piemember the night, when, iu shrieks of affright, 
The fleets of the East iu your ocean were sunk: 
Keniember each day, when, in battle array, 

From the fountain of glory how largely ye drunk ! 
For there is not ought that a freeman can fear. 
As the fetters of insult, the name of a slave; 
And there is not a voice to a nation so dear, 
As the war-song of freedom that calls ou the brave. 



KING CHARLES'S VISION. 

A vision somewhat resembliiis tin- following:, and proplictic of Hie 
Northern Alexander, is saiii to have been witnessed by Charles XI. 
of Sweden, the anta;^o4iist of Sigismund. Tlie reader will oxclaini, 
" Credat Judajus Apella !" 

King Chaki.es was sitting all alone, 

Til his lonely palace-tower, 
When there came on his ears a heavy groan 

At the silent midnight hour. 

He turu'd him round where he heard the sound, 

P)Ut nothing might he see; 
And lie only heard the nightly bird 

That shriek'd right fearfully. 



He turu'd him nmnd where he heard the sound, 

To his casement's arched frame; 
"And he was aware of a light that was there,''* 

But he wist not whence it came. 

He looked forth into the night, 

'Twas calm as night might be; 
But broad and bright the flashing light 

Stream'd red and radiantly. 

From ivory sheath his trusty brand 

Of stalwart steel he drew ; 
And he raised the lamp in his better hand, 

But its flame was dim and blue. 

And he ojieu'd the door of that palace-tower, 

But harsh turn'd the jarring key: 
"By the Virgin's might," cried the king that night, 

"All is not as it should be!" 

Slow turu'd the door of the crazy tower, 

And slowly again did it close ; 
And within and without, and all about, 

A sound of voices rose. 

The king he stood in dreamy mood. 

For the voices his name did call ; 
Theu on he past, till he came at hist 

To the pillar'd audience-hall. 

Eight-and-forty columns wide, 

Many and carved and tall 
(Four-and-twenty on each side), 

Stand iu that lordly hall. 

The king had been pightt in the mortal flght. 

And struck the deadly blow; 
The king he had strode iu the red red blood, 

Often, afore, and now : 

Yet his heart had ne'er been so harrow'd with fear 

As it was this fearful hour; 
For his eyes were not dry, and his hair stood ou 
high. 

And his soul had lost its power. 

For a blue livid flame, round the hall where he 
came, 

In fiery circles ran ; 
And sounds of death, and chattering teeth, 

And gibbering tongues began. 

He saw four-and-twenty statesmen old 

Hound a lofty table sit ; 
And each iu his hand did a volume hold, 

AVhereiu mighty things were writ. 

In burning steel wei-e their limbs all cased ; 

On their cheeks was the flush of ire: 
Their armor was braced, and their helmets were 
laced. 

And their hollow eyes darted fire. 

With sceptre of might, and with gold crown bright. 

And locks like the raven's wing. 
And iu regal state at that board there sat 

The likeness of a king. 

With crimson tinged, and witli ermine fringed. 
And with jewels spangled o'er. 



'And he was aware of a Gray-friar." 

The Grail Brother. 
' And lio was aware of a knight that was there." 

Tim Baron of Smal/iome. 
" A hideous rock is piglit 
Of mighty nuignes-stone." — Sl'ENSER. 

** You vile abominable tents, 
Thus proudly piglit upon our Thrygian plains!" 

SiiAUsrEAliE. 



KING CHARLES'S VISION. 



?sC,l 



Aud rich as the be;uu of the suu ou the stream, 
A sparkling robe he wore.* 

Yet thougli fair shone tlie gem ou his proud ilia- 
deni, 

Thougli his robe was jewell'd o'er, 
Though brilliant the ve.-it ou his mailed breast, 

Yet they all were staiu'd with gore ! 

And his eye darted ire, .ind his glance shot Arc, 

And his look was high command ; 
And each, when he spoke, struck his mighty book, 

Aud raised his shadowy hand. 

And a headman stood by, with his axe on high. 

And quick was his ceaseless stroke ; 
And loud was the shock on the echoing block. 

As the steel shook the solid oak. 

While short and thick came the mingled shriek 
Of the wretches who died by his blow; 

And fast fell each head ou the pavement red, 
Aud warm did the life-blood flow. 

Said the earthly king to the ghostly king, 

" What fearful sights are those ?" 
Said the ghostly king to the earthly king, 

" They are signs of future woes 1" 



* This is, perliaps, an unpardonable falsehood, since it is well 
knowni that Charles "was so great an enemy to finery as even to ob- 
ject to the appearance of the Duke of Marlborough on that account. 
Let those readers, therefoie, whose critical nicety this passage of- 
fends substitute the following stanza, which is " the whole truth, and 
nothing but the truth :" 

With buttons of brass that glitter'd like glass. 

And brows that were crown 'd with bays, 
With large blue coat, and with black jack-boot, 
The theme of his constant praise?. 
■Nothing indeed could exceed Charles's affliction for his boots: he 
eat, drank, and slept in them : nay, he never went on a bootless er- 
rand. When the dethroned monarch Augustus waited upon him with 
proposals of peace, Charles entertained him with a long dissertation 
on his unparalleled aforesaid jack- boots: he even went so far as to 
threaten (according to Voltaire), in an authoritative epistle to the 
Senate at Stockholm, that unless they proved less refractory, he 
would send them one of his boots as regent ! Now this, we must 
allow, was a step beyond Caligula's consul. 



Said the earthly king to the ghostly king, 

" By St. Peter, who art thou ?" 
Said the ghostly king to the earthly king, 

" I shall be, but I am not now." 

Said the earthly king to the ghostly king, 
"But when will thy time diaw nigh?" 

''Ohl the sixth after thee will a warrior be, 
Aud that warrior am I. 

"And the lords of the earth shall be pale at my birth, 

Aud conquest shall hover, o'er me; 
Aud the kingdoms shall shake, aud the nations shall 
quake, 

Aud the thrones fall down before me. 

"And Cracow shall bend to my majesty, 

Aud the haughty Dane shall bow; 
And the Pole shall fly from my piercing eye. 

And the scowl of my clouded brow. 

"And around my way shall the hot balls play. 

And the red-tongued flames arise ; 
Aud my pathway shall be on the midnight sea, 

'Neath the frown of the wintry skies. 

•'Thro' narrow pass, over dark morass, 

And the waste of the weary plain. 
Over ice and snow, where the dark streams flow. 

Thro' the woods of the wild Ukraine. 

"And though sad be the close of my life aud my 
woes, 

And the hand that shall slay me uushowu; 
Yet in every clime, thro' the lapse of all time. 

Shall my glorious conquests be known. 

"And blood shall be shed, and the earth shall be red 

With the gore of misery ; 
Aud swift as this flame shall the light of my fame 

O'er the world as brightly fly." 

As the monarch spoke, crew the morning cock, 

When all that pageant bright, 
Aud the glitter of gold, and the statesmen old, 

Fled into the gloom of uight ! 



3C2 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



The original Preface to "Tlie Lover's Tale" states that it was composed in my nineteenth year. Two 
only of the tliree parts then written were printed, when, feelln;,' the iniperfectiou of the poem, I withdrew 
it from the press. One of my friends, however, who, boy-lilie, admired the boy's work, distributed among 
our common associates of tliat honr some copies of these two parts, without my knowledge, without tlie 
omissions and amendments wliich I had in contemplation, and marred by the many niispriiits of the com- 
positor. Seeing that these two parts have of late been mercilessly i)irated, and that what I had deemed 
scarce worthy to live is not allowed to die, may 1 not be pardoned if I snft'er the whole poem at last to come 
into the light, accompanied with a reprint of the sequel— a work of my mature life— "The Golden Supper?" 



AUGUMENT. 

Julian, wbose cousin mid foster-sister, Camilla, has been wedded to 
liis friend and rival, Lionel, endeavors to narrate the story of his own 
love for her, and the strange sequel. He speaks (in Parts II. and III.) 
of having been haunted by visions and the sound of bells, tolling for a 
funeral, and at last ringing for a marri:ige ; but lie breaks away, over- 
cnne, as he approaches the Event, and a witness to it completes tlie 
tale. 

I. 

UruR far awaj', seen from the topmost cliff, 

Filling with purple gloom tlie vacancies 

Between the tufted hills, tlie sloping seas 

Hung in mid-heaven, and half-way down rare sails, 

White as white clouds, floated from sky to sky. 

Oil ! pleasant breast of waters, quiet bay, 

Like to a quiet mind in the loud world, 

Where the chafed breakers of the outer sea 

Sank powerless, as anger falls aside 

And withers on tlie breast of peaceful love; 

Thou didst receive the growth of pines that fledged 

The hills that watched thee, as Love watchelh Love, 

In thine own essence, and delight thyself 

To make it wholly tliine on sunny days. 

Keep thou thy name of "Lover's Bay." See, sirs, 

Even now the Goddess of the Past, that takes 

The heart, and sometimes touches but one string 

Tliat quivers, and is silent, and sometimes 

Sweeps suddenly all its half-moulder'd chords 

To some old melody, begins to play 

That air which pleased her first. I feel thy breath ; 

I come, great Mistress of the oar and eye: 

Thy breath is of the pinewood; and tho' years 

Have hollow'd out a deep and stormy strait 

Betwixt the native land of Love and me, 

Breathe but a little on me, and the sail 

Will draw me to the rising of Mio sun, 

The lucid chambers of the morning star, 

And East of Life. 

Permit me, friend, I prithee. 
To pass my hand across my brows, and muse 
On those dear hills, that never more will meet 
The sight that throbs and aches beneath my touch. 
As tlio' there beat a heart in either eye; 
For when the outer lights are darkcn'd thus, 
The memory's vision hath a keener edge. 
It grows upon me now— the siMiiicircle 
Of dark blue waters and the narrow fringe 
Of curving beach — its wreaths of dripping green- 
Its i)ale pink shells — the summer-house aloft 
That opcn'd on the pines with doors of glass, 
A mountain nost— tlic pleasure-boat that rock'd, 
Light green with its own shadow, keel to keel, 
Upon the dappled dimplings of the wave, 
Tliat blanch'd upon its uitle. 



O Love, O Hope ! 
They come, they crowd upon mc all at once- 
Moved from the cloud of unforgotton things. 
That sometimes on the horizon of the mind 
Lies folded, often sweeps athwart in storm^ 
Flash upon flash they lighten thro' me— days 
Of dewy dawning and the amber eves 
When tliou and I, Camilla, thou and I 
Were borne about the bay or safely moor'd 
Beneath a low-brow'd cavern, where the tide 
Plash'd, sapping Its worn ribs; and all without 
The slowly ridging rollers on the cliffs 
Clash 'd, calling to each other, and thro' the arch 
Down those lond waters, like a setting star, 
Mi.xt with the gorgeous west the light-house shone, 
And silver-smiling Venus ere she fell 
Would often loiter In her balmy blue, 
To crown it with herself. 

Here, too, my love 
Waver'd at anchor with me, when day hung 
From his mid-dome in Heaven's airy halls; 
Gleams of the water-circles as they broke, 
Flicker'd like doubtful smiles about her lips, 
Quiver'd a flying glory on her hair. 
Leapt like a passing thought across her eyes; 
And mine with one that will not pass, till earth 
And heaven pass too, dwelt on my heaven, a face 
Most starry-fair, but kindled from within 
As 'twere with dawn. She was dark-haired, dark-eyed; 
Oh, such dark eyes! a single glance of them 
Will govern a whole life from birth to death, 
Careless of all things else, led on with light 
In trances and In visions: look at tlieni, 
You lose yourself In utter ignorance ; 
You can not find their depth ; for they go back, 
And farther back, and still withdraw themselves 
Quite into the deep soul, that evermore 
Fresh springing from her fountains in the brain, 
Still pouring thro', floods with redundant life 
Her narrow iiortals. 

Trust me, long ago 
I should have died, if it were possible 
To die in gazing on that perfectness 
Which I do bear wltliin me: I had died, 
But from my farthest lapse, my latest ebb, 
Thine image, like a charm of light and strength 
Upon the waters, push'd me back again 
On these deserted sands of barren life. 
Tho' from the deep vault where the heart of Hope 
Fell into dust, and crumbled in the dark- 
Forgetting how to render beautiful 
Her countenance with quick and healthful blood— 
Thou didst not sway me upward ; could I perish 
Wliile thou, a meteor of the sepulclire. 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



363 



Didat swatlie thyself all round Hope's quiet ura 

Forever? lie, that sailli it, hath o'erstept 

The slippery looting of his narrow wit, 

And fall'u away from judgment. Tlioii art light, 

To which my spirit leaneth all her flowers. 

And length of days, and immortality 

Of thought, and freshness ever self-renew'd. 

For Time and Grief abode too long with Life, 

And, like all other friends i' the world, at last 

They grew aweary of her fellowship: 

So Time and Grief did beckon unto Death, 

And Death drew nigh and beat the doors of Life ; 

But thou didst sit alone in the inner house, 

A wakeful portress, and didst parle with Dcath,^ 

"This is a charmed dwelling which I hold;" 

So Death gave back, and would no farther come. 

Yet is my life nor in the present time. 

Nor in the present place. To me alone, 

Push'd from his chair of regal heritage, 

Tlie Present is the vassal of the Past: 

So that, in that I have lived, do I live. 

And can not die, and am, in having been — 

A portion of the pleasant yesterday. 

Thrust forward on to-day and out of place; 

A body journeying onward, sick with toil, 

The weight as if of age upon my limbs. 

The grasp of hopeless grief about my heart. 

And all the senses weaken'd, save in that, 

Which long ago they had glean'd and garncr'd up 

Into the granaries of memory — 

The clear brow, bulwark of the precious brain, 

Chink'd as you see, and soam'd— and all the while 

The light soul twines and mingles with the growths 

Of vigorous early days, attracted, won. 

Married, made one with, molten into all 

The beautiful in Past of act or ])lace. 

And like the all-enduring camel, driven 

Far from the diamond fountain by the palms. 

Who toils across the middle moon lit nights, 

Or when the white heats of the blinding noons 

Beat from the concave sand ; yet in him keeps 

A draught of that sweet fountain that he loves, 

To stay his feet from falling, and his spirit 

From bitterness of death. 

Ye ask me, friends. 
When I began to love. How should I tell you? 
Or from the after-fullness of my heart. 
Flow back again unto my slender spring 
And first of love, tho' every turn and depth 
Between is clearer in my life tlian all 
Its present flow. Ye know not what ye ask. 
How should the broad and open (lower tell 
What sort of bud it was, when, prcst together 
In its green sheath, close-lapt in silken folds, 
It seem'd to keep its sweetness to itself. 
Yet was not the less sweet for that it seem'd? 
For young Life knows not when young Life was born. 
But takes it all for granted: neither Love, 
Warm in the heart, his cradle, can remember 
Love in the womb, but resteth satisfied. 
Looking on her that brought him to the light: 
Or as men know not when they fall asleep 
Into delicious dreams, our other life, 
So know I not when I began to love. 
This is my sum of knowledge — that my love 
Grew with myself— say rather, was my growth, 
My inward sap, the hold I have on earth. 
My outward circling air wherewith I breathe. 
Which yet upholds my life, and evermore 
Is to me daily life and daily death : 
For how should I have lived and not have loved ? 
Can ye take off the sweetness from the flower. 
The color and the sweetness from the rose, 
And place them by themselves; or set apart 
Their motions and their brightness from the stars. 
And then point out the flower or the star? 
Or build a wall betwixt my life and love. 



And tell me where I am? 'Tis even thus: 
In that I live I love ; because I love 
I live: whate'er is fountain to the one 
Is fountain to the other ; and whene'er 
Our God unknits the riddle of the one, 
There is no shade or fold of mystery 
Swathing the other. 

Many, many years 
(For they seem many and my most of life. 
And well I could have linger'd in that poich, 
So unproportion'd to the dwelling-place). 
In the May dews of childhood, opposite 
The flush and dawn of youth, we lived together. 
Apart, alone together on those hills. 

Before he saw my day my father died, 
And he was happy that he saw it not; 
But I and the first daisy on his grave 
From the same clay came into light at once. 
As Love and I do number equal years. 
So she, my love, is of an age with me. 
How like each other was the birth of each ! 
On the same morning, almost the same hour. 
Under the selfsame aspect of the stars 
(Oh falsehood of all starcraft !), we were born. 
How like each other was the birth of each ! 
The sister of my mother— she that boie 
Camilla close beneath her beating heart, 
Whicli to the imprison'd spirit of the cliild. 
With its true-touched pulses in the flow 
And hourly visitation of the blood. 
Sent notes of preparation manifold. 
And mellow'd echoes of tlie outer world — 
My mother's sister, mother of my love. 
Who had a twofold claim upon my heart. 
One twofold mightier than the other was. 
In giving so much beauty to the world. 
And so much wealth as God had charged her with— 
Loathing to put it from herself forever. 
Left her own life with it; and dying thus, 
Crown'd with her higliest act the placid fare 
And breathless body of her good deeds past. 

So were we born, so orphan'd. She was motherlcs* 
And I without a father. So from each 
Of those two ijillars which from earth uphold 
Our childhood, one had fallen away, and all 
The careful burden of our lender years 
Trembled upon the other. He that gave 
Her life, to me delightedly fulfill'd 
All loving-kindnesses, all ofHces 
Of watcliful cai'e and trembling tenderness. 
He waked for both : he pray'd for both : he slept 
Dreaming of both: nor was his love the less 
Because it was divided, and shot forth 
Boughs on each side, laden with wholesome shade. 
Wherein we nested sleeping or awake, 
And sang aloud the matin-song of life. 

She was my foster-sister: on one arm 
The flaxen ringlets of our infancies 
Wander'd, the while we rested : one soft lap 
Pillow'd us both : a common light of eyes 
Was on us as we lay : our baby lips. 
Kissing one bosom, ever drew from thence 
The stream of life, one stream, one life, one blood. 
One sustenance, which, still as thought grew large, 
Still larger moulding all the house of thought. 
Made all our tastes and fancies like, perhaps— 
All— all but one; and strange to me, and sweet. 
Sweet thro' strange years to know that whatsoe'er 
Our general mother meant for me alone, 
Our mutual mother dealt to both of us: 
So what was earliest mine in earliest life, 
I shared with her in whom myself remains. 

As was our childhood, so our infancy, 
Tliey tell me, was a very miracle 



304 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



Of fL-llo\v-feeliiig and coniniunion. 

They tell me that we would not be alone,— 

We cried when we were parted ; when I wept, 

Her smile lit up the rainbow on my tears, 

Staid on the cloud of sorrow ; that we loved 

The sound of one another's voices more 

Than the gray cuckoo loves his name, and learnt 

To lisp in tune together; that we slept 

In the same cradle always, face to face, 

Heart beating time to heart, lip pressing lip. 

Folding each other, breathing on each otlier. 

Dreaming together (dreaming of each other 

They should have added), till the morning light 

Sloped thro' tlie pines, upon the dewy pane 

Falling, unseal'd our eyelids, and we woke 

To gaze upon each other. If this be true. 

At thought of which my whole soul languishes 

And faints, and hath no pulse, no breath— as tho' 

A man in some still garden should infuse 

Rich atar in the bosom of the rose, 

Till, drunk with its own wine, and overfull 

Of sweetness, and in smelling of itself. 

It fall on its own thorns— if this be true— 

And that way my wish leads me evermore 

Still to believe it— 'tis so sweet a thought, 

Why in the utter stillness of tlie soul 

Doth question 'd memory answer not, nor tell 

Of this our earliest, our closest-drawn. 

Most loveliest, earthly-heavenliest harmony ? 

O blossom'd portal of the lonely house. 
Green prelude, April promise, glad new-year 
Of Being, which with earliest violets 
And lavish carol of clear-throated larks 
Fill'd all the March of life !— I will not speak of thee; 
These have not seen thee, these can never know thee, 
They can not understand me. Pass we tlien 
A term of eighteen years. Ye would but laugh, 
If I should tell you how I hoard in thouglit 
The faded rhymes and scraps of ancient crones, 
Gray relics of the nurseries of the world. 
Which are as gems set in my memory. 
Because she learnt tliem with me ; or what use 
To know her fatlier left us just before 
The daffodil was blown? or how we found 
The dead man cast upon the shore? All this 
Seems to the quiet daylight of your minds 
But cloud and smoke, and in tlie dark of mine 
Is traced with flame. Move with me to the event. 

There came a glorious morning, such a one 
As dawns but once a season. Mercury 
On sucli a morning would have flung himself 
From cloud to cloud, and swum with balanced wings 
To some tall mountain : when I said to her, 
" A day for Gods to stoop," she answered, " Ay, 
And men to soar ;" for as that other gazed. 
Shading his eyes till all the fiery cloud. 
The prophet and the cliariot and the steeds, 
SuckVl into oneness like a little star 
Were drunk into the inmost blue, we stood. 
When first we came from out the pines at noon, 
With hands for eaves, uplooking and almost 
Waiting to see some blessed shape in heaven, 
So bathed we were in brilliance. Never yet 
Before or after have I known the spriug 
Pour with sucli sudden deluges of light 
Into the middle summer; for that day 
Love, rising, shook his wings, and charged the winds 
With spiced May-sweets from bound to bound, and 

blew 
Fresh fire into the sun, and from within 
Burst thro' the heated buds, and sent his soul 
Into the songs of birds, and touch'd far off 
His mountain-altars, his high hills, with flame 
Milder and purer. 

Thro' the rocks we wound : 
The great pine shook with lonely sounda of joy 



That came on the sea-wind. As mountain streams 
Our bloods ran free : the sunshine seeui'd to brood 
More warmly on tbe heart than on the brow. 
We often jiaused, and, looking back, we saw 
The clefts and openings in the mountains fill'd 
With the blue valley and the glistening brooks, 
And all the low dark groves, a land of love! 
A land of promise, a land of memory, 
A land of promise flowing with the milk 
And honey of delicious memories! 
And down to sea, and far as eye could ken. 
Each way from verge to verge a Holy Land, 
Still growing holier as you near'd the bay, 
For there the Temple stood. 

When we had reach'd 
The grassy platform on some hill, I stoop'd, 
I gather'd the wild herbs, and for her brows 
And mine made garlands of the selfsame flower, 
Which she took smiling, and with my work thus 
Crown'd her clear forehead. Once or twice she told me 
(For I remember all things) to let grow 
The flowers that run poison in their veins. 
She said, "The evil flourish in tlie world." 
Then playfully she gave herself the lie — 
"Nothing in nature is unbeautiful , 
So, brother, pluck, and spare not." So I wove 
Ev'n the dull-blooded popi)y-stem, " whose flower, 
lined with the scarlet of a fierce sunrise. 
Like to the wild youth of an evil prince. 
Is without sweetness, but who crowns himself 
Above the secret poisons of his heart 
In his old age." A graceful thought of hers 
Grav'n on my fancy ! And oh, how like a nymph, 
A stately mountain nymph she look'd! how native 
Unto the hills she trod on ! While I gazed, 
My coronal slowly disentwined itself 
And fell between us both; tho' while I gazed 
My spirit leapt as with those thrills of bliss 
That strike across the soul in prayer, and show us 
That we are surely heard. Methonglit a light 
Burst from the garland I had wov'n, and stood 
A solid glory on her bright black hair; 
A light methought broke from her dark, dark eyes. 
And shot itself into the singing winds; 
A mystic light flash'd ev'n from her white robe 
As from a glass in the sun, and fell about 
My footsteps on the mountains. 

Last we came 
To what our people call " The Hill of Woe." 
A bridge is there, that, look'd at from beneath. 
Seems but a cobweb filament to link 
The yawning of an earthquake-cloven chasm. 
And thence one night, when all the winds were loi'.d, 
A woful man (for so the story went) 
Had thrust his wife and child and dash'd himself 
Into the dizzy depth below. Below, 
Fierce in the strength of far descent, a stream 
Flies with a shatter'd foam along the chasm. 

The path was perilous, loosely strewn with crags: 
We mounted slowly ; yet to both there came 
The joy of life in steepness overcome. 
And victories of ascent, and looking down 
On all that had look'd down on us ; and joy 
In breathing nearer heaven; and joy to me, 
High over all the azure-circled earth. 
To breathe with her as if in heaven itself; 
And more than joy that I to her became 
Her guardian and her angel, raising her 
Still higher, past all peril, until she saw 
Beneath her feet the region far away. 
Beyond the nearest mountain's bosky brows, 
Burst into open prospect— heath and hill, 
And hollow lined and wooded to the lips, 
And steep-down walls of baltlemented rock 
Gilded with broom, or shatter"d into spires. 
And glory of broad waters interfused. 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



3Gii 



Whence rose as it were bi-eatli and steam of goUl, 
And over all tlie great wood rioting 
And climbing, streak'd or starr'd at intervals 
With falling brook or blossom'd btish — and last, 
Framing tlie miglity landscape to the west, 
A purple range of mountain-cones, between 
Whose interspaces gush'd in blinding bursts 
The incorporate blaze of sun and sea. 

At length 
Descending from the point and standing botli, 
There on the tremulous bridge, that from beneath 
Had seeni'd a gossamer filament up in air. 
We paused amid the splendor. All the west 
And ev'n unto the middle south was ribb'd 
And barr'd with bloom on bloom. The sun below. 
Held for a space 'twixt cloud and wave, shower'd down 
Kays of a mighty circle, weaving over 
That various wilderness a tissue of light 
Unparallel'd. On the other side, the moon, 
Half melted into thin blue aii', stood still, 
And pale and fibrous as a withered leaf, 
Nor yet endured in presence of His eyes 
To indue his lustre; most unlover-lilie. 
Since In his absence full of light and joy. 
And giving light to others. But this most. 
Next to her presence whom I loved so well, 
Spoke loudly even into my inmost heart 
As to my outward liearing: the loud stream, 
Forth issuing from his portals in the crag 
(A visible link unto the home of my heart), 
Ran amber toward the west, and nigh the sea 
Parting my own loved mountains was received. 
Shorn of its strength, into tlie sympathy 
Of that small bay, which out to open main 
Glow'd intermingling close beneath the sun. 
Spirit of Love! that little hour was bound 
Shut ill from Time, and dedicate to thee: 
Thy fires from heaven had touch'd it, and the earth 
They fell on became hallow'd evermore. 

We tnrn'd ; our eyes met hers were bright, and mine 
Were dim with floating tears, that shot the sunset 
In lightnings round me, and my iistme was borne 
Upon her breath. Henceforth my name has been 
A hallow'd memory like the names of old, 
A centred, glory-circled memory. 
And a peculiar treasure, brooking not 
Exchange or currency and in that hour 
A hope flow'd round me, like a golden mist 
Charm'd amid eddies of melodious airs, 
A moment, ere the onward whirlwind sliatter it, 
Waver'd and floated— which was less than Hope, 
Because it lack'd the power of perfect Hope; 
But which was more and higher than all Hope, 
Because all other Hope had lower a'lm ; 
Even that this name to which her gracious lips 
Did lend such gentle utterance, this one name. 
In some obscure hereafter, might inwreathe 
(How lovelier, nobler then!) her life, her love, 
With my life, love, soul, spirit, and heart and strength. 

"Brother," she said, "let this be call'd henceforth 
The Hill of Hope;" and 1 replied, "O sister. 
My will is one witli thine, the Hill of Hope." 
Nevertheless, we did not cliange the name. 

I did not speak, I could not speak my love. 
Love lieth deep: Love dwells not in lip-depths. 
Love wraps his wings on either side the heart. 
Constraining it with kisses close and warm. 
Absorbing all the incense of sweet thoughts 
So that they pass not to the shrine of sound. 
Else had the life of that delighted hour 
Drunk in the largeness of the utterance 
Of Love; but how should Earthly measure mete 
The Heavenly-unmeasured or unlimited Love, 
Who scarce can tune his high majestic sense 
Unto the thunder-song that wheels the spheres. 
Scarce living in the .iEolian harmony. 



And flowing odor of the spacious air. 

Scarce housed within the circle of this Earth, 

Be cabin'd up in words and syllables, 

Which pass with tluit which breathes them? Soonei 

Earth 
Might go round Heaven, and the strait girtli of Time 
Inswathe the fullness of Eternity, 
Tlian language grasp the infinite of Love. 

O day which did enwomb that happy hour, 
Thou art blessed in tlie years, diviuest day! 
O Genius of that hour which dost npliold 
Thy coronal of glory like a God, 
Amid thy melancholy mates far-seen, 
Who walk before thee, ever turning round 
To gaze upon thee till their eyes are dim 
With dwelling on the light and depth of thine. 
Thy name is ever worshipp'd among hours ! 
Had I died then, I had not seem'd to die. 
For bliss stood round me like the light of Heaven — 
Had I died then, I had not known the death ; 
Yea had the Power from whose right hand the liglit 
Of Life issueth, and from whose left hand floweth 
The Shadow of Death, perennial etflucnces, 
Whereof to all that draw the wholesome air, 
Somewliile the one must overflow the other ; 
Then had he stemm'd my day with niglit, and driven 
My current to the fountain whence it sprang, — 
Even his own abiding excellence — 
On me, methinks, that shock of gloom had fall'n 
Uiifelt, and in this glory 1 had merged 
The other, like the sun I gazed upon, 
Which seeming for the moment due to death. 
And dipping his head low beneath the verge. 
Yet bearing round about hiui his own day, 
In confidence of unabated strength, 
Steppeth from Heaven to Heaven, from light to light. 
And holdeth his undimined forehead far 
Into a clearer zenith, pure of cloud. 

We trod the shadow of the downward liill ; 
We past from light to dark. t)n the otlier side 
Is scoop'd a cavern and a mountain hall. 
Which none have fathom'd. If you go far in 
(The country people rumor) you may hear 
The moaning of the woman and the child, 
Shut in the secret chambers of the rock. 
I too have heard a sound — perchance of streams 
Running far on within its inmost halls. 
The home of darkness ; but the cavern-mouth. 
Half overtraded with a wanton weed. 
Gives birth to a brawling brook, tliat passing lightly 
Adown a natural stair of tangled roots. 
Is presently received in a sweet grave 
Of eglantines, a place of burial 
Far lovelier than its cradle ; for unseen. 
But taken with the sweetness of the place. 
It makes a constant bubbling melody 
Tiiat drowns the nearer echoes. Lower down 
Spreads out a little lake, that, flooding, leaves 
Low banks of yellow sand; and from the woods 
That belt it rise three dark, tall cypresses, — 
Three cypresses, symbols of mortal woe. 
That men plant over graves. 

Hither we came, 
And sitting down upon tlie golden moss. 
Held converse sweet and low — low converse sweet, 
In which our voices bore least part. The wind 
Told a love tale beside us, how he woo'd 
The waters, and the waters answering lisp'd 
To kisses of the wind, that, sick with love, 
Fainted at intervals, and grew again 
To utterance of passion. Y'^e can not shape 
Fancy so fair as is this memory. 
Methought all excellence that ever was 
Had drawn herself from many thousand years, 
And all the separate Edcns of this earth. 



3GG 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



To centre in this place nntl time. I listen'd, 

And lier words stole with most prevailing sweetness 

Into my heart, as thronging fancies come 

To boys and girls wlien summer days are new, 

And soul and heart and Ijody are all at ease: 

What marvel my Camilla told me all? 

It was so happy an hour, so sweet a place, 

And I was as the brother of her blood. 

And by tliat name I moved upon her breath ; 

Dear name, which had too much of nearness in it 

And heralded the distance of this time! 

At first her voice was very sweet and low, 

As if she were afraid of utterance; 

But in the onward current of her speech 

(As echoes of the hollow-banked brooks 

Are fashion'd by the channel which they keep), 

Her words did of their meaning borrow sound, 

Her cheeli did catch the color of her words. 

I heard and trembled, yet I could but hear; 

My heart paused— my raised eyelids would not fall, 

But still I kept my eyes upon the sky. 

I seem'd the only part of Time stood still, 

And saw the motion of all other things; 

While her words, syllable by syllable. 

Like water, drop by drop, upon my ear 

Fell; and I wisli'd, yet wish'd her not to speali; 

But slie spake on, for I did name no wish. 

What marvel my Camilla told me all 

Her maiden dignities of Hope and Love — 

" Perchance," she eaid, "return'd." Even then the 

stars 
Did tremble in their stations as I gazed; 
But she spake on, for I did name no wish, 
No wish — no hope. Hope was not wholly dead, 
But l)reathing hard at the approach of Death, — 
Camilla, my Camilla, who was mine 
No longer in the dearest sense of mine — 
For all the secret of her inmost heart, 
And all the maiden empire of her mind, 
Lay like a map before me, and I saw 
There, where I hoped myself to reign as king. 
There, where lliat day I crown'd myself as king, 
There in my realm and even on my throne, 
Another! then it seem'd as tho' a link 
Of some tight chain within my inmost frame 
Was riven in twain : that life I heeded not 
Flow'd from me, and the darkness of the grave, 
The darkness of the grave and ntter night. 
Did swallow up my vision ; at her feet, 
Even the feet of her I loved, I fell, 
Sinit with exceeding sorrow unto Death. 

Then had the earth l)eneath me yawning cloven 
With such a sound as when an iceberg splits 
From cope to base— had Heaven from all her doors. 
With all her golden thresliolds clashing, roll'd 
Her heaviest thunder — I had lain as dead. 
Mute, blind, and motionless as then I lay; 
Dead, for henceforth there was no life for me! 
Mute, for henceforth what use were words to me ! 
Blind, for the day was as the night to me! 
The night to me was kinder than the day; 
The night in pity took away my day, 
Because my grief as yet was newly born 
Of eyes too weak to look upon the light ; 
And thro' the hasty notice of the ear 
Frail Life was startled from the tender love 
Of him she brooded over. Would I had lain 
Ilntil the plaited ivy-tress had wound 
Kound my worn limbs, and the wild brier had driven 
Its knotted thorns thro' my unpainiiig brows. 
Leaning its roses on my faded eyes. 
The wind had blown above me, and the rain 
Had fall'n upon me, and the gilded snake 
Had nestled in this bosom-throne of Love, 
But I had been at rest for evermore. 

Long time cntrnucement held me. All too soon 



Life (like a wanton too-officious friend. 

Who will not liear denial, vain and rude 

With proffer of unwished-for services) 

Entering all the avenues of sense 

Past thro' into his citadel, the i)rain. 

With hated warmtli of apprehensiveness. 

And first the chillness of the sprinkled brook 

Smote on my brows, and then I seem'd to hear 

Its murmur, as tlie drowning seaman hears. 

Who with his head below the surface dropt 

Listens the muffled booming indistinct 

Of the confused floods, and dimly knows 

His head shall rise no more : and then came iu 

The white light of the weary moon above. 

Diffused and molten into flaky cloud. 

Was my sight drunk that it did shajjc to me 

Him who should own that name? Were it not well 

If so Ije that the echo of that name 

Ringing within the fancy had updrawn 

A fashion and a phantasm of the form 

It should attach to ? Phantom !— had the ghastliest 

That ever lusted for a body, sucking 

The foul steam of the grave to thicken by it, 

There in the shuddering moonlight brought its face 

And what it has for eyes as close to mine 

As he did — better that than his, than he 

The friend, the neighl>or, Lionel, the l)eloved, 

The loved, the lover, the hapjiy Lionel, 

The low-voiced, tender-spirited Lionel, 

All joy, to whom my agony was a joy. 

O how her choice did leap forth from his eyes! 

how her love did clothe itself in smiles 
About his lips! and — not one moment's grace — 
Then when the effect weigh'd seas upon my heud 
To come my way ! to twit me with the cause ! 

Was not the land as free thro' all her ways 
To him as me ? Was not his wont to walk 
Between the going light and growing night? 
Had I not learnt my loss before he came? 
Could that be more because he came my way? 
Why should he not come my way if he would? 
And yet to-niglit, to-night— when all my wealth 
Flash'd from me in a moment and I fell 
Beggar'd forever — why .should he come my way 
Robed in those robes of light I must not wear, 
V.'ith that great crown of beams about his brovvs-=- 
Come like an angel to a damned soul, 
To tell him of the bliss he had with God — 
Come like a careless and a greedy heir 
That scarce can wait the I'eading of the will 
Before he takes possession? Was mine a mood 
To be invaded rudely, and not rather 
A sacred, secret, nnapproached woe. 
Unspeakable? I was shut up with Grief; 
She took the body of my past delight, 
Narded and swathed and balm'd it for herself. 
And laid it in a sepulchre of rock 
Never to rise again. I was led mute 
Into her temple like a sacrifice; 

1 was the High Priest in her holiest place. 
Not to be loudly broken in upon. 

Oh friend, thoughts deep and heavy as these well 
nigh 
O'erbore the limits of my brain : but he 
Bent o'er me, and my neck his arm upatay'd. 
I thought it was an adder's fold, and once 
I strove to disengage myself, but fail'd. 
Being so feeble: she bent above me, too; 
Wan was her cheek ; for whatsoe'er of blight 
Lives in the dewy touch of pity had nnule 
The red rose there a pale one— and her eyes— 
I saw the moonlight glitter on their tears— 
And some few drops of that distressful rain 
Fell on my face, and her long ringlets moved, 
Drooping and beaten by the hi-ee/.e, and brush'd 
My fallen forehead in their to and fro. 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



367 



For in the sudden anguish of her heart 

Loosed from their simple thrall they had flow'd abroad, 

And floated on and parted round her neck, 

Mantling her form half way. She, when I woke, 

Something she ask'd, I know not what, and ask'd, 

Unanswer'd, since 1 spake not ; for the sound 

Of that dear voice so musically low, 

And now first heard with any sense of pain, 

As it had taken life away before. 

Choked all the syllables, that strove to rise 

From my full heart. 

The blissful lover, too, 
From his great hoard of happiness distill'd 
Some drops of solace ; like a vain rich man, 
That, having always prosper'd in the world. 
Folding his hands, deals comfortable words 
To hearts wounded forever; yet, in truth. 
Fair speech was his and delicate of phrase, 
Falling in whispers on the sense, address'd 
More to the inward than the outward ear. 
As rain of the midsummer midnight soft. 
Scarce heard, recalling fragrance and the green 
Of the dead spring : but mine was wholly dead. 
No bud, no leaf, no flower, no fruit for me. 
Yet who had done, or who had suffer'd wrong? 
And why was I to darken their pure love. 
If, as I found, they two did love each other. 
Because my own was darken'd ? Why was I 
To cross between their happy star and them? 
To stand a shadow by their shining doors. 
And vex them with my darkness? Did I love her? 
Ye know that I did love her ; to this present 
My full-orb'd love has waned not. Did I love her. 
And could I look upon her tearful eyes? 
What had she done to weep ? Why should she weep ? 

innocent of spirit — let my heart 

Break rather — whom the gentlest airs of Heaven 

Should kiss with an unwonted gentleness. 

Her love did murder mine ? What then ? She deem'd 

1 wore a brother's mind: she call'd me brother: 
She told me all her love •, she shall not weep. 

The brightness of a burning thought, awhile 
In battle with the glooms of my dark will. 
Moon-like emerged, and to itself lit up 
There on the depth of an unfatliom'd woe 
Reflex of action. Starting up at once. 
As from a dismal dream of my own death, 
I, for I loved her, lost my love in Love; 
I, for I loved her, graspt the hand she lov'd. 
And laid it in her own, and sent my cry 
Thro' the blank night to Him who loving made 
The happy and the unhappy love, that He 
Would hold the hand of blessing over them, 
Lionel, the hai)py, and her, and her, his bride ! 
Let them so love that men and boys may say, 
"Lo! how they love each other!" till their love 
Shall ripen to a proverb, unto all 
Known, when their faces are forgot in the land — 
One golden dream of love, from which may death 
Awake them with heaven's music in a life 
More living to some happier happiness. 
Swallowing Its precedent in victory. 
And as for me, Camilla, as for me,— 
The dew of tears is an unwholesome dew. 
They will but sicken the sick plant the more. 
Deem that I love thee but as brothers do. 
So Shalt thou love me still as sisters do; 
Or if thou dream aught farther, dream but how 
I could have loved thee, had there been none else 
To love as lovers, loved again by thee. 

Or this, or somewhat like to this, I spake. 
When I beheld her weep so ruefully; 
For sure my love should ne'er indue the front 
And mask of Hate, who lives on others' moans. 
Shall Love pledge Hatred in her bitter draughts, 
24 



And batten on her poisons ? Love forbid ! 

Love pa'sseth not the threshold of cold Hate, 

And Hate is strange beneath the roof of Love. 

O Love, if thou be'st Love, dry up these tears 

Shed for the love of Love ; for tlio' mine image, 

The subject of thy power, be cold in her. 

Yet, like cold snow, it melteth in the source 

Of these sad tears, and feeds their downward flow. 

So Love, arraign'd to judgment and to death. 

Received unto himself a part of blame. 

Being guiltless, as an innocent prisoner. 

Who, when the wotul sentence hath been past, 

And all the clearness of his fame hath gone 

Beneath the shadow of the curse of man. 

First fails asleep in swoon, wherefrom awaked, 

And looking round upon his tearful friends. 

Forthwith and in his agony conceives 

A shameful sense as of a cleaving crime— 

For whence without some guilt should such grief be? 

So died that hour, and fell into the abysm 
Of forms outworn, but not to me outworn. 
Who jiever hail'd another— was there one? 
Tliere might be one— one other, worth the life 
That made it sensible. So that hour died 
Like odor rapt into the winged wind 
Borne into alien lands and far away. 

There be some hearts so airily bnilt, that they. 
They— when their love is wreck'd— if Love can wreck- 
On that sharp ridge of utmost doom ride highly 
Above the perilous seas of Change and Chance; 
Nay, more, hold out the lights of cheerfulness; 
As the tall ship, that many a dreary year 
Knit to some dismal sand-bank far at sea. 
All thro' the livelong hours of utter dark. 
Showers slanting light upon the dolorous wave. 
For me— what light, what gleam on those black ways 
V" 're Love could walk with banish'd Hope no more ? 

It was ill done to part you, Sisters fair ; 
Love's arms were wreath'd about the neck of Hope, 
And Hope kiss'd Love, and Love drew in her breath 
In that close kiss, and drank her whisper'd tales. 
They said that Love would die when Hope was gone, 
And Love mouin'd long, and sorrow'd after Hope; 
At last she sought out Memory, and they trod 
The same old paths where Love had walk'd with Hope, 
And Memory fed the soul of Love with tears. 

/ 

II. 

From that time forth I would not see her more ; 

But many weary moons I lived alone — 

Alone, and in the heart of the great forest. 

Sometimes upon the hills beside the sea 

All day I watch'd the floating isles of shade. 

And sometimes on the shore, upon the sanda 

Insensibly I drew her name, until 

The meaning of the letters shot into 

My brain ; anon the wanton billow wash'd 

Them over, till they faded like my love. 

The hollow caverns heard me— the black brooks 

Of the mid-forest heard me — the soft winds. 

Laden with thistlo-down and seeds of flowers, 

Paused in their course to hear me, for my voice 

Was all of thee : the merry linnet knew me. 

The squirrel knew me, and the dragon-fly 

Shot by me like a flash of purple fire. 

The rough brier tore my bleeding palms; the hemlock 

Brow-high, did strike my forehead as I past ; 

Yet trod I not the wildflower in my path. 

Nor bruised the wildbird's egg. 

AVas this the end ? 
Why grew we then together in one plot ? 
Why fed we from one fountain ? drew one sun? 
Why were our mothers' branches of one stem ? 



3G8 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



Why were we one in all things, save in that 
Where to have been one had been the cope and 

crown 
Of all I hoped and fear'd?— if that same nearness 
Were father to this distance, and that one 
Vauntcoiirier to this double? if Affection 
Living slew Love, and Sympathy hew'd out 
The bosom-sepulchre of Sympathy ? 

Chiefly I songlit the cavern and the hill 
\Miere last we roam'd together, for the sound 
Of the loud stream was pleasant, and the wind 
Came wooingly with woodbine smells. Sometimes 
All day I sat within the cavorn-mouUi, 
Fixing my eyes on those three cypress-cones 
Tliat spired above the wood ; and with mad hand 
Tearing the bright leaves of the ivy-screen, 
I cast them in the noii^y brook beneath, , 

And watch'd them till they vanish'd from my sight | 
Beneath the bower of wreathed eglantines: 
And all the fragments of the living rock ' 

(Huge blocks, which some old trembling of the world 
Had loosen'd from the mountain, till they fell , 

Half digging their own graves), these in my agony | 
Did I make bare of all the golden moss, | 

Wherewith the dashing runnel in the spring I 

Had liveried them all over. In my brain i 

The spirit seem'd to flag from thought to thought, \ 
As moonlight wandering thro' a mist, my blood 
Crept like marsh drains thro' all my languid limbs; 
The motions of my heart seem'd far within me, 
Unfrequent, low, as tho' it told its pulses; | 

And yet it shook me, that my frame would shudder, 
As if 'twere drawn asunder by the rack. 
But over the deep graves of Hope and Fear, 
And all the broken palaces of the Past, 
Brooded one master-passion evermore, 
Like to a low-hung and a fiery sky 
Above some fair metropolis, earth-shock'd, — 
Hung round with ragged rims and burning folds,— 
Embathing all with wild and wofnl hues. 
Great hills of ruins, and collapsed masses 
Of thunder-shaken columns indistinct. 
And fused together in the tyrannous light — 
Ruins, the ruin of all my life and me ! 

Sometimes I thought Camilla was no more. 
Some one had told she was dead, and ask'd me 
If I would see her burial : then I seem'd 
To rise, and through the forest-shadow borne 
With more than mortal swiftness, I ran down 
The steepy sea-bank, till I came upon 
The rear of a procession, curving round 
The silver-slieeted bay: in front of which 
Six stately virgins, all in white, upbare 
A broad earth-sweeping pall of whitest lawn. 
Wreathed round the bier with garlands in the dis- 
tance. 
From out tho yellow woods upon the hill 
Look'd forth the summit and tlie pinnacles 
Of a gray steei)le — thence at intervals 
A low bell tolling. All the pageantry. 
Save those six virgins which uplield the bier. 
Were stoled from liead to foot in flowing black ; 
One walk'd abreast with me, and veil'd his brow. 
And he was loud in weeping and in praise 
Of her we foUow'd ; a strong sympathy 
Sliook all my soul: I flung myself upon him 
In tears and cries: I told him all my love, 
How 1 had loved her from the lirst; wliereat 
He shrank and howl'd, and from his brow drew back 
His hand to push me from liim ; and tlie face, 
The very face and form of Lionel 
Flash'd thro' my eyes into my innermost brain. 
And at his feet I seeuK^d to faint and fall. 
To fall and die away. I could not rise 
Albeit I strove to follow. They past on. 
The Icrdly Phantasms! iu their floating folds 



They past and were no more: but I had fallen 
Prone by the dashing runnel on the grass. 

Alway the inaudible invisible thought. 
Artificer and subject, lord and slave, 
Sliap<'d by the audil)le and visible. 
Moulded the audible and visible ; 
All crisped sounds of wave and leaf and wind 
Flatter'd the fancy of my fading brain , 
The cloud-pavilion'd element, the wood. 
The mountain, the three cypresses, thr; cave. 
Storm, sunset, glows and glories of the moon 
Below black firs, when silent-creeping winds 
Laid the long night in silver streaks and bars. 
Were \,'rought into the tissue of my dream: 
The moanings in the forest, the loud brook. 
Cries of the partridge like a rusty key 
Turn'd in a lock, owl-whoop and dorhawk-whir, 
Awoke me not, but w^ere a part of sleep. 
And voices in the distance calling to me 
And in my vision bidding me dream on. 
Like sounds without the twilight realm of dreams, 
Which wander round the bases of the hills. 
And murmur at the low-dropt eaves of sleep, 
Half-entering the portals. Oftentimes 
The vision had fair prelude, in the end 
Opening on darkness, stately vestibules 
To caves and shows of Death: whether the mind, 
With some revenge — even to itself unknown, — 
Made strange division of its suffering 
With her, whom to have suffering view'd had been 
Estremest pain ; or that the clear-ej'ed Spirit, 
Being blunted in the Present, grew at length 
Prophetical and prescient of whate'er 
The Future had in store: or that which most 
Enchains belief, the sorrow of my spirit 
Was of so wide a compass it took iu 
All I had loved, and my dull agony. 
Ideally to her transferr'd, became 
Anguish intolerable. 

The day waned; 
Alone I sat with her: about my brow 
Her warm breath floated in the utterance 
Of silver-chorded tones, her lips were sunder'd 
With smiles of tranquil bliss, which broke in light 
Like morning from her eyes — her eloquent eyes 
(As I have seen them many a hundred limes). 
Filled all with pure clear flre, thro' mine down rain'd 
Their spirit-searching splendors. As a vision 
Unto a haggard prisoner, iron-8tay"d 
In damp and dismal dungeons under-ground. 
Confined on points of faith, when strength is shock'd 
With torment, and expectancy of worse 
L'pon the morrow, thro' the ragged walls. 
All unawares before his half-shut eyes. 
Comes in upon him in the dead of night. 
And with the excess of sweetness and of awe. 
Makes the heart tremble, and the sight run over 
Upon his steely gyves; so those fair eyes 
Shone on my darkness, forms which ever stood 
Within the magic cirque of memory, 
Invisible but deathless, waiting still 
The edict of the will to re-assume 
The semblance of those rare realities 
Of which they were the mirrors. Now the light 
Which was their life bmsts through the cloud of 

thought 
Keen, irrepressible. 

It was a room 
Within the summer-house of which I spake, 
Hung round with paintings of the sea, and one 
A vessel in mid-ocean, her heaved prow 
Clambering, the mast bent and the ravin wind 
In her sail roaring. From the outer day, ^^^' 
Betwixt the close-set ivies came a broad 
And solid beam of isolated lig'it. 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



369 



Crowded with driving atomies, and fell 

Slanting upon thiit picture, from prime youth 

Well known, well loved. She drew it long ago 

Fortli-g;izing on the waste and open sea. 

One morning when the upblown billow ran 

Shoreward beneath red clouds, and I had pour'd 

Into the sliadowing pencil's naked forms 

Color and life : it was a bond and seal 

Of friendsliip, spoken of witli tearful smiles; 

A monument of childhood and of love; 

The poesy of childhood; my lost love 

Symbol'd in storm. We gazed on it together 

In mute and glad remembrance, and each heart 

Grew closer to the other, and the eye 

Was riveted and chaiin-bound, gazing like 

The Indian on a still-eyed snake, low-couch'd — 

A beauty which is death ; when all at once 

That painted vessel, as with inner life. 

Began to lieave upon that painted sea; 

An earthquake, my loud heart-beats, made the ground 

Reel under us, and all at once, soul, life 

And breath and motion, past and flow'd away 

To those unreal billows : round and round 

A whirlwind caught and bore us; mighty gyres 

Rapid and vast, of hissing spray wind-driven 

Far thro' tlie dizzy dark. Aloud she shriek'd; 

My heart was cloven with pain ; I wound my arms 

About her: we whirl'd giddily; the wind 

Sung; but I claspt her without fear: her weight 

Shrank in my grasp, and over my dim eyes, 

And parted lips which drank her breath, down hung 

The jaws of Death : I, groaning, from me flung 

Her empty phantom: all the sway and whirl 

Of the storm dropt to windless calm, and I 

Down welter'd thro' the dark ever and ever. 

III. 

T CAME one day and sat among the stones 

Strewn in the entry of the moaning cave; 

A morning air, sweet after rain, ran over 

The rippling levels of the lake, and blew 

Coolness and moisture and all smells of bud 

And foliage from the dark and dripping woods 

Upon my fever'd brows that shook and throbb'd 

From temple unto temple. To what height 

The day had grown I know not. Then came on me 

The hollow tolling of the bell, and all 

The vision of the bier. As heretofore, 

I ivalk'd behind with one who veil'd his brow. 

Methoiight by slow degrees the sullen l)ell 

Toll'd quicker, and the breakers on the shore 

Sloped into louder surf: those that went with me, 

And those that held the bier before my face, 

Moved with one spirit round about the bay. 

Trod swifter steps ; and while I walk'd with these 

In marvel at that gradual change, I thouglit 

Four hells instead of one began ro rinsr. 

Four merry bells, four merry marriage bells, 

In clanging cadence jangling peal on peal — 

A long loud clash of rapid marriage bells. 

Then those who led the van, and those in rear, 

Rush'd into dance, and like wild Bacchanals 

Fled onward to the steeple in the woods: 

I, too, was borne along, and felt the blast 

Beat on my heated eyelids: all at once 

The front rank made a sudden halt; the bells 

Lapsed into frightful stillness; the surge fell 

From thuude'; into whispers ; those six maids 

With shrieks and ringing laughter on the sand 

Threw down the bier ; the woods upon the bill 

Waved with a sudden gust that sweei)iug down 

Took the edges of the pall, and blew it far 

Until it hung, a little silver cloud. 

Over the sounding seas: I turn'd: my heart 

Shrank in me, like a snow-flake in the hand, 

Waiting to see the settled countenance 

Or her I loved, adorn'd with fading flowers. 



But she from out her death-like chrysalis. 
She from her bier, as into fresher life, 
My sister, and my cousin, and my love, 
Leapt lightly, clad in bridal white— her hair 
Studded with one rich Provence rose— a light 
Of smiling welcome round her lips— her eyes 
And cheeks as bright as when she cliuib'd the hill. 
One hand she reach'd to those that came behind, 
And while I mused nor yet endured to take 
So rich a prize, the man who stood with me 
Slept gayly forward, throwing down liis robes. 
And claspt her hand in his: again the bells 
Jangled and clang'd : again the stormy surf 
Crash'd in the shingle : and the whirling rout 
Led by those two rush'd into dance, and fled 
Wind-footed to the steeple in the woods. 
Till they were swallow'd in the leafy bowers, 
And I stood sole beside the vacant bier. 

There, there, my latest vision— then the event ! 



IV. 



THE GOLDEN SUPPER. 

{Another speaks.) 

He flies the event: he leaves the event to me: 
Poor Julian— how he rush'd away ; the bells. 
Those marriage bells, echoing in ear and heart- 
But cast a parting glance at me, you saw, 
As who should say " Continue." Well, he had 
One golden hour— of triumph shall I say ? 
Solace at least — before he left his home. 

Would you had seen him in-that hour of his! 
He moved thro' all of it majestically— 
Restrain'd himself quite to the close— but now— 

Whether they were his lady's marriage bells, 
Or prophets of them in his fantasy, 
I never asked : but Lionel and the girl 
Were wedded, and our Julian came again 
Back to his mother's house among the pines. 
But these, their gloom, the mountains and the Bay, 
The whole land, weigh'd him down as ^tna does 
The Giant of Mythology : he would go. 
Would leave the land forever, and had gone 
Surely, but for a whisper, " Go not yet," 
Some warning — sent divinely— as it seem'd 
By that which follow'd— hut of this I deem 
As of the visions that he told— the event 
Glanced back upon them in his after-life, 
And partly made them— tho' he knew it not. 

And thus he staid and would not look at her 

No not for mouths; but, when the eleventh moon 
After their marriage lit the lover's Bay, 
Heard yet once more the tolling bell, and said. 
Would you could toll me out of life, but found- 
All sot'ily as his mother broke it to him — 
A crueller reason than a crazy ear. 
For that low knell tolling his lady dead- 
Dead— and had lain three days without a pulse: 
All that look'd on her had pronounced her dead. 
And so they bore her (for in Julian's land 
They never nail a dumb head up in elm), 
Bore her free-faced to the free airs of heaven, 
And laid her in the vault of her own kiu. 

What did he then? not die: he is here and hale — 
Not plunge head-foremost from the mountain there. 
And leave the name of Lover's Leap: not he: 
He knew the meaning of the whisper now. 
Thought that he knew it. "This, I staid for this; 

love, I have not seen you for so long. 
Now, now, will I go down into the grave, 

1 will be all alone with all I love. 



370 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



And kiss her on the lips. She is his no more: 
The dead returns to me, and I go down 
To kiss the dead." 

The fancy stirr'd him so 
He rose and went, and entering the dim vault. 
And, mal<ing there a sudden liglit, heheld 
All round about him that which all will be. 
The light was but a flash, and went again. 
Then at the far end of the vault he saw 
His lady with tlie moonlight on her face; 
Her breast as in a shadow-prison, bars 
Of black and bands of silver, which the moon 
Struck from an open grating overhead 
High in the wall, and all the rest of her 
Drown'd in the gloom and horror of the vault. 

" It was my wish," Iw; said, " to pass, to sleep, 
To rest, to be with her— till the great day 
Peal'd on us with that music which rights all, 
And raised us hand in hand." And kneeling there 
Down in the dreadful dust that once was man, 
Dust, as he said, that once was loving hearts. 
Hearts that had beat with such a love as mine- 
Not such as mine, no, nor for such as her — 
He softly put his arm about her neck 
And kissed her more than once, till helpless death 
And silence made him bold— nay, but I wrong him. 
He reverenced his dear iady oven in death ; 
Bnt, placing his true hand upon her heart, 
" O, you warm lieart," he moaned, "not even death 
Can chill you all at once:" then starting, thought 
His dreams had come again. " Do I wake or sleep ? 
Or am I made immortal, or my love 
Mortal once more?" It oeat— the heart— it beat: 
Faint— but it beat : at which his own began 
To pulse with such a vehemence that It drowned 
The feebler motion underneath his hand. 
Bnt when at last his doubts were satisfied, 
lie raised her softly from the sepulchre. 
And wrapping her all over with the cloak 
He came in, and now striding fast, and now 
Sitting awhile to rest, but evermore 
Holding his golden burden in his arras, 
So bore her thro' the solitary land 
Back to the mother's house where she was born. 

There the good mother's kindly ministering. 
With half a night's appliances, recall'd 
Her fluttering life: she raised an eye that ask'd 
"Where?" till the things familiar to her youth 
Had made a silent answer: then she spoke 
" Here ! and how came I here ?" and learning it 
(Tliey told her somewhat rashly as I think), 
At once began to wander and to wail, 
"Ay, but you know that you must give me back: 
Send! bid him come;" but Lionel was away — 
Stung by his loss had vanished, none knew where. 
" He casts me ont," she wept, " and goes" — a wail 
That seeming something, yet was nothing, born 
Not from believing mind, but shatter'd nerve, 
Yet haunting Julian, as her own reproof 
At some precipitance in her burial. 
Then, when her own true spirit had return'd, 
"O yes, and you," she said, "and none but yon. 
For you have given me life and love again, 
And none but you yourself shall tell him of it. 
And you shall give me back when he returns." 
"Slay then a little," answered Julian, "here. 
And keep yourself, none knowing, to yourself; 
And I will do your will. I may not stay, 
■ No, not an hour; bnt send me notice of him 
When he returns, and then will I return. 
And I will make a solemn offering of you 
To him you love." And faintly she replied, 
"And I will do your will, and none shall know." 

Not know? with such a secret to be known. 



But all their house was old and loved them both, 
And all the house had known the loves of both; 
Had died almost to serve them any way, 
And all the land was waste and solitary: 
And then he rode away; but after this. 
An hour or two, Camilla's travail came 
Upon her, and that day a boy was born, 
Heir of his face and land, to Lionel. 

And thus our lonely lover rode away, 
And pausing at a hostel in a marsh. 
There fever seized upon him : myself was then 
Travelling that land, and meant to rest an hour; 
And sitting down to such a base repast. 
It makes me angry yet to speak of it — 
I heard a groaning overhead, and climb'd 
The moulder'd stairs (for every thing was vile), 
And in a loft, with none to wait on him, 
Found, as it seeni'd, a skeleton alone, 
Raving of dead men's dust and beating hearts. 

A dismal hostel in a dismal land, 
A flat malarian world of reed and rush ! 
But there from fever and my care of him 
Sprang up a friendship that may help us yet. 
For while we roam'd along the dreary coast. 
And waited' for her message, piece by piece 
I learnt the drearier story of his life; 
And tho' he loved and honor'd Lionel, 
Found that tlie sudden wail his lady made 
Dwelt in his fancy: did he know her worth, 
Her beauty even ? should he not be taught, 
Ev'n by the price that others set upon it. 
The value of that jewel he had to guard? 

Suddenly came her notice, and we past, 
I with our lover to his native Bay. 

This love is of the brain, the mind, the soul: 
That makes the sequel pure; tho' some of us 
Beginning at the sequel know no more. 
Not such am I : and yet I say, the bird 
That will not hear my call, however sweet, 
But if my neighbor whistle answers him— 
What matter? there are others in the wood. 
Yet when I saw her (and I thought him crazed, 
Tho' not with such a craziness as needs 
A cell and keeper), those dark eyes of hers— 
Oh! such dark eyes! and not her eyes alone, 
But all from these to where she touch'd on earth. 
For such a craziness as Julian's look'd 
No less than one divine apology. 

So sweetly and so modestly she came 
To greet us, her young hero in her arms! 
" Kiss him," she said. " You gave me life again. 
He, but for you, had never seen it once. 
His other father you ! Kiss him, and then 
Forgive him, if his name be Julian too." 

Talk of lost hopes and broken heart! his own 
Sent such a flame into his face, I knew 
Some sudden vivid pleasure hit him there. 

But he was all the more resolved to go. 
And sent at once to Lionel, praying him 
By that great love they both had borne the dead, 
To come and revel for one hour with him 
Before he left the land for evermore; 
And then to friends — they were not many — who lived 
Scatteringly about that lonely land of his. 
And bade them to a banquet of farewells. 

And Julian made a solemn feast: I never 
Sat at a costlier; for all round his hall 
From column on to column, as in a wood, 
Not such as here — an equatorial one — 
Great garlands swung and blossom'd; and beneath. 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



371 



Heiilooms, and ancient miracleu of Art, 

Clialice and salver, wines that. Heaven liuows when, 

Had suclv'd the fire of some forgotten sun, 

And kept it tlno' a hundred years of gloom, 

Yet glowing in a heart of ruby — cups 

Wliere nymph and god ran ever round in gold — 

Others of glass as costly — some with gems 

Movable and resettable at will. 

And trebling all the rest in value — Ah heavens ! 

Why need I tell you all ?— suffice to say 

That whatsoever such a house as his. 

And his was old, has iu it rare or fair 

Was brought before the guest: and they, the guests, 

Wonder'd at some strange light in Julian's eyes 

(I told you that he had his golden hour). 

And such a feast, ill suited as it seem'd 

To such a time, to Lionel's loss and his. 

And that resolved self-exile from a land 

He never would revisit, sucli a feast 

So rich, so strange, and stranger ev'n than rich. 

But rich as for the nuptials of a king. 

And stranger yet, at one end of the hall 
Two great funereal curtains, looi)ing down, 
PiUted a little ere they met the floor. 
About a picture of his lady, taken 
Some years before, and falling hid the frame. 
And just above the jiarting was a lamp : 
So the sweet figure folded round with night 
Seem'd stepping out of darkness with a smile. 

Well, then— our solemn feast — we ate and drank, 
And might — the wines being of such nobleness — 
Have jested also, but for Julian's eyes. 
And something weird and wild about it all : 
What was it? for our lover seldom spoke. 
Scarce touch'd the meats ; but ever and anon 
A priceless goblet with a priceless wine 
Arising, show'd he drank beyond his use; 
And when the feast was near an end, he said : 

" There is a custom in the Orient, friends — 
I read of it in Persia — when a man 
Will honor those who feast with him, he brings 
And shows them whatsoever he accounts 
Of all his treasures the most beautiful. 
Cold, jewels, arms, whatever it may be. 
This custom — " 

Pausing here a moment, all 
The guests broke in upon him with meeting hands 
And cries about the banquet — " Beautiful ! 
Who could desire more beauty at a feast ?" 

The lover answer'd, "There is more than one 
Here sitting who desires it. Laud me not 
Before my time, but hear me to the close. 
This custom steps yet further when the guest 
Is loved and honor'd to the uttermost. 
For after he hath shown him gema or gold. 
He brings and sets before him in rich guise 
That which is thrice as beautiful as these. 
The beauty that is dearest to his heart — 
'O my heart's lord, would I could show you,' he 

says, 
'Ev'n my heart too.' And I propose to-night 
To show you what is dearest to my heart. 
And my heart too. 

"But solve me first a doubt. 
I knew a man, nor many years ago ; 
He had a faithful servant, one who loved 
His master more than all on earth beside. 
He falling sick, and seeming close on death. 
His master would not wait until he died. 
But bade his menials bear him from the door, 
And leave him in the public way to die. 
I knew another, not so long ago. 
Who found the dying servant, took him home, 



And fed, and cherish'd him, and saved his life. 
I ask you now, should this first master claim 
His service, whom does it l)el()ng to ? him 
Who thrust him out, or him who saved his life ?" 

This question, so flung down before the guests, 
And balanced either way by each, at length, 
When some were doubtful how the law would hold, 
Was handed over by consent of all 
To one who had not spoken, Lionel. 

Fair speech was his, and delicate of phrase. 
And he, beginning languidly — his loss 
Weigh'd on him yet— but warming as he went. 
Glanced at the point of law, to pass it by, 
Aflirming that as long as either lived. 
By all the laws of love and gratefulness, 
The service of the one so saved was due 
All to the saver — adding, with a smile. 
The first for many weeks — a semi-smile 
As at a strong conclusion — " body and soul 
And life and limbs, all his to work his will." 

Then Julian made a secret sign to me 
To bring Camilla down before them all. 
And crossing her own picture as she came. 
And looking as much lovelier as herself 
Is lovelier than all others— on her head 
A diamond circlet, and from under this 
A veil, that seemed no more than gilded air. 
Flying by each fine ear, an Eastern gauze 
With seeds of gold— so, with that grace of hers, 
Slow-moving as a wave against the wind. 
That flings a mist behind it in the sun — 
And bearing high in arms the mighty babe, 
The younger Julian, who himself was crown'd 
With roses, none so rosy as himself — 
And over all her babe and her the jewels 
Of many generations of his house 
Sparkled and flash'd, for he had decked them out 
As for a solemn sacrifice of love — 
So she came in : — I am long in telling it, 
I never yet beheld a thing so strange. 
Sad, sweet, and strange together — floated in — 
While all the guests in mute amazement rose — 
And slowly pacing to the middle hall. 
Before the board, there paused and stood, her breast 
Hard-heaving, and her eyes upon her feet. 
Not daring yet to glance at Lionel. 
But him she carried, him nor lights nor feast 
Dazed or amazed, nor eyes of men ; who cared 
Only to use his own, and staring wide 
And hungering for the gilt and jewell'd world 
About him, look'd, as he is like to prove. 
When Julian goes, the lord of all he saw. 

" My guests," said Julian : " you are honor'd now 
Ev'n to the uttermost : in her behold 
Of all my treasures the most beautiful. 
Of all things upon earth the dearest to me." 
Then waving us a sign to seat ourselves, 
Led his dear lady to a. chair of stale. 
And I, by Lionel sitting, saw his face 
Fire, and dead asb«s and all fire again 
Thrice in a second, felt him tremble too. 
And heard him muttering, "So like, so like; 
She never had a sister. I knew none. 
Some cousin of his and hers— O God, so like !" 
And then he suddenly ask'd her if she were. 
She shook, and cast her eyes down, and was dumb 
And then some other question'd if she came 
From foreign lands, and still she did not speak. 
Another, if the boy were hors: but she 
To all their queries answer'd not a word, 
Which made the amazement more, till one of thcra 
Said, shuddering, "Her spectre!" But his friend 
Replied, in half a whisper, " Not at least 
The spectre that will speak if spoken to. 



372 



THE LOVER'S TALE. 



Terrible pity, if one so beautifiil 

Prove, as I iilmost dread to And her, dumb !" 

But Julian, sitting by her, answer'd all : 
" She is but dumb because in her yon see 
That faithful servant whom we spoke about, 
Obedient to her second master now; 
Which will not last. I have here to-night a guest 
So bound to me by common love and loss— 
What! shall I bind him more? in his behalf, 
Shall I exceed the Persian, giving him 
That which of all things is the dearest to me; 
Not only showing? and he himself pronounced 
That my rich gift is wholly mine to give. 

"Now all be dumb, and promise all of you 
Not to break in on what I say by word 
Or whisper, while I show you all my heart." 
And then began the story of his love 
As here to-day, but not so wordily— 
The passionate moment would not suffer that- 
Past thro' his visions to the burial ; thence 
Down to this last strange hour in his own hall; 
And then rose up, and with him all his guests 
Once more as by enchantment; all but he, 
Lionel, who fain had risen, but fell again. 
And sat as if iu chains— to whom he said: 



"Take my free gift, my cousin, for your wife; 
And were it only for the giver's sake. 
And tho' she seem so like the one you lost. 
Yet cast her not away so suddenly. 
Lest there be none left here to bring lier back : 
I leave this laud forever." Here he ceased. 

Then taking his dear lady by one hand. 
And bearing on one arm the noble babe, 
He slowly brought them both to Lionel. 
And there the widower husband and dead wife 
Rusli'd each at each with a cry, that rather seem'd 
For some new death than for a life renew'd; 
Whereat the very babe began to wail ; 
At once they turu'd, and caught and brought him iu 
To their charm'd circle, and, half killing him 
With kisses, round him closed and claspt again. 
But Lionel, when at last he freed himself 
Fnmi wife and child, and lifted up a face 
All over glowing with the sun of life. 
And love, and boundless thanks — the sight of this 
So frighted our good friend, that, turning to me 
And saying, "It is over: let us go" — 
There were our horses ready at the doors — 
We bade them no farewell, but mounting these 
He past forever from his native land: 
And I with him, my Julian, back to mine. 



THE CHAEGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE AT BALACLAVA. 



BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS. 



ALFRED TENNYSON 
MY GRANDSON. 

Golden-iiaiu'd Ally wbose name is one with mine, 

Crazy with laughter aud babble and earth's new wine, 

Now tha.t the flower of a year and a half is thiue, 

O little blossom, O miue, aud mine of mine. 

Glorious poet who never hast written a line, 

Laugh, for the name at the head of my verse is thiue. 

May'st thou never be wroug'd by the name that is miue! 



THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRI- 
GADE AT BALACLAVA.* 

October 25, 18.54. 
I. 

The charge of the gallaut three hundred, the Heavy 

Brigade ! — 
Down the hill, down the hill, thousands of Russians, 
Thousands of horsemen, drew to the valley — and 

stay'd ; 
For Scarlett aud Scarlett's three hundred were rid- 
ing by 
When the points of the Russian lances broke in on 

the sky ; 
And he call'd "Left wheel into line!" and they 

wheel'd and obey'd. 
Then he look'd at the host that had halted he knew 

not why, 
Aud he turn'd half round, aud he bade his trun-ipeter 

sound 
To the charge, and he rode on ahead, as he waved 

his blade 
To the gallaut three hundred whose glory will never 

die — 
"Follow," and up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, 
Follow'd the Heavy Brigade. 

II. 

The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the might 

of the tight!— 
Down the hill, slowly, thousands of Russians 
Drew to the valley, and halted at last on the height. 
With a wing push'd out to the left, and a wing to 

the right — 
But Scarlett was far on ahead, aud he dash'd up 

alone 
Thro' the great gray slope of men. 
And he wheel'd his sabre, he held his own 
Like an Englishman there and then ; 
And the three that were nearest him follow'd with 

force. 
Wedged themselves in betweeu horse and horse, 

* The "three hundred " of the " Heavy Brigade" who made this 
furnous charge were the Scots Greys and the second squadron of Innis- 
kiUens ; the remainder of the " Heavy Brigade " subsequently dashing 
up to their support. 

The '* three " were Elliot, Scarlett's aide-de-camp, who had been 
riding by his side, and the trumpeter, aud Shegog the orderly, who had 
been close behind him. 



Fought for their lives in the narrow'^ gap they had 

made. 
Four amid thousands; aud up the hill, up the hill 
Gallopt the gallaut three hundred, the Heavy Bri- 
gade. 

III. 
Fell like a cannon-shot, 
Burst like a thunder-bolt, 
Crash'd like a hurricane. 
Broke thro' the mass from below, 
Drove thro' the midst of the foe. 
Plunged up and down, to and fro, 
Rode flashing blow upon blow. 
Brave Inniskilleus and Greys 
Whirling their sabres in circles of light ! 
And some of us, all in amaze. 
Who were held for a while from the fight, 
And were only standing at gaze, 
When the dark-muffled Russian crowd 
Folded its wings from the left and the right, 
And roll'd them around like a cloud— 
O mad for the charge aud the battle were we. 
When our own good redcoats sank from sight. 
Like drops of blood in a dark-gray sea. 
And we turn'd to each other, muttering, all dis- 

may'd. 
Lost are the gallant three hundred, the Heavy Bri- 
gade 1 

IV. 

But they rode like Victors and Lords 

Thro' the forest of lances and swords 

In the heart of the Russian hordes; 

They rode, or they stood at bay — 

Struck with the sword-hand aud slew, 

Down with the bridle-hand drew 

The foe from the saddle aud threw 

Underfoot there in the fray — 

Ranged like a storm or stood like a rock 

In the wave of a stormy day ; 

Till suddenly shock upon shock 

Stagger'd the mass from without, 

For our men gallopt up with a cheer and a shout, 

And the Russian surged, and waver'd, and reel'd 

Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field, 

Over the brow aud away. 



Glory to each and to all, and the charge that they 

made ! 
Glory to all the three hundred, the Heavy Brigade ! 



374 



"THE REVENGE." 



"THE REVENGE." 

A BALLAD OF THE FLEET. 
I. 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Ricliard Greiiville lay, 

And a pinnace, like a fliitter'd bird, came flying from 
far away : 

"Spaniisli ships of war at sea! we have sighted flfty- 
tliree!" 

Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : " 'Fore God I am 
no coward ; 

But I can not meet them here, for my sliips are out 
of gear. 

And tlie half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow 
quick. 

We are six ships of the line; can we flght with fifty- 
three ?" 

II. 

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : " I know you are 

no coward ; 
You fly them for a moment to flght with tliem again. 
But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick 

ashore. 
I should count myself the coward if I left them, ray 

Lord Howard, 
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of 

Spain." 

IIL 

So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war 

that day, 
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer 

heaven : 
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from 

tlie land 
Very carefully and slow. 
Men of Bideford in Devon, 
And we laid them on the ballast down below; 
For we brought tliem all aboard, 
And thoy blest him in their pain, that they were not 

left to Spain, 
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of 

the Lord. 

IV. 

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and 

to flght, 
And he sail'd away from Flores till the Spaniard 

came in sight, 
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather 

bow. 
"Shall we fight or shall we fly? 
Good Sir Richard, let us know, 
For to fight is but to die! 
There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be 

set." 
And Sir Richard said again : "We be all good English 

men. 
Let us bang these doge of Seville, the children of the 

devil. 
For 1 never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet." 



Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a 

hurrah, and so 
The little Reventje ran on sheer into the heart of the 

foe. 
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety 

sick below ; 
For half of their fleet to the right and half to the 

left were seen, 
And the little Revemje ran on thro' the long sea-lane 

between. 



VL 

Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from then 

decks and laugh'd. 
Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad 

little craft 
Running on and on, till delay'd 
By their mountain-like San Phili}} that, of flfteen 

hundred tons. 
And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning 

tiers of guns, 
Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. 

VII. 

And while now the great San Philip hung above us 
like a cloud 

Whence the thunder-bolt will fall 

Long and loud. 

Four galleons drew away 

From the Spanish fleet that day. 

And two upon the larboard and two upon the star- 
board lay, 

And the battle-thunder broke from them all. 

• 

VIIL 

But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself 

and went. 
Having that within her womb that had left her ill 

content ; 
And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought 

us hand to hand. 
For a dozen times they came with their pikes and 

musqueteers, 
And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that 

shakes his ears 
When he leaps from the water to the land. 

IX. 

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far 

over the summer sea, 
But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and 

the flfty-three. 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built 

galleons came. 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle- 
thunder and flame ; 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with 

her dead and her sliarae. 
For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and 

so could flght us no more- 
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world 

before ? 



For he said, "Fight on ! flght on !" 

Tho' bis vessel was all but a wreck ; 

And it chanced that, when half of the summer night 

was gone. 
With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck. 
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly 

dead. 
And himself he was wounded again in the side and 

the head. 
And he said, " Fight on ! flght on !" 

XL 

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out 

far over the summer sea, 
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round 

us all in a ring ; 
But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd 

that we still could sting. 
So they watch'd what the end would be. 
And we had not fought them in vain, 



^THE REVENGE."— THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. 



But iu perilous plight were we, 

Seeiiit; forty of our poor huiulied were sl;iiu, 

Autl half of the rest of us uiaiiu'd fur life 

Iu the crash of the canuouades aud the desperate 

strife; 
Aud the sick men down in the hold were most of 

them stark and cold, 
Aud the pikes were all broken or bent, and the pow- 

dej' was all of it spent ; 
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the 

8ide ; 
But Sir Richard cried, in his English pride, 
" We have fought such a tight for a day and a uight 
As may never be fought again ! 
We have won great glory, my meu ! 
And a day less or more, 
At sea or ashore. 
We die — does it matter when? 
Sink me the ship, Master Guuuer — sink her, split her 

iu twain ! 
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of 

Spain !' 

XII. 

And the gunner said, "Ay, ay," but the seamen made 

reply : 
"We have children, we have wives, 
And the Lord hath spared (Utr lives. 
We will make the Spaniaid promise, if we yield, to 

let us go; 
We shall live to fight agaiu aud to strike another 

blow." 
Aud the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the 

foe. 

XIII. 

And the stately Spauish meu to their flag-ship bore 

him then. 
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard 

caught at last, 
And they praised him to his face with their courtly 

foreign grace ; 
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: 
"I have f.>ui;ht fur Queen and Faith like a valiant 

man and true ; 
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: 
With a jnyfiil s])irit I, Sir RichardGrenville, die !' 
Aud he fell upon their decks, and he died. 

XIV. 

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant 
aud true, 

And had holdeu the power aud glory of Spain so cheap 

That he dared her with oue little ship and his Eng- 
lish few : 

Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they 
knew. 

But they sank his body with honor down into the 
deep, 

Aud they manu'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien 
crew, 

Aud away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her 
own ; 

When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke 
from sleep, 

Aud the water began to heave and the weather to 
moan. 

And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, 

Aud a wave like the wave that is raised by an earth- 
gtnike grew, 

Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their 
masts and their flags. 

And the whole sea pluiiired aud fell ou the shot- 
shattcr'd navy of Spain, 

And the little Revenge herself went down by the isl- 
and crags 

To be lost evermore iu the maiu. 



THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. 



DEDICATORY POEM TO THE PRINCESS ALICE. 

DrcAi) PiitNOKss, living Power, if that, which lived 

True life, live <m— and if the fatal kiss, 

Born of true life aud love, divorce thee not 

From earthly love and life — if what we call 

'J'he spirit ttasli not all at once from out 

This shadow into Substance — then i)erhai)8 

The UK'llow'd murmur of the people's ])raise 

From tliinc own State, and all our breadth of realm, 

Wliere Love and Longing dress thy deeds iu liglit, 

Ascends to thee ; and this March inoru that sees 

Thy Soldier-brother's bridal orange-bloom 

Break thro' the yews and cypress of thy grave, 

Aud thine Imperial mother smile again. 

May send oue ray to thee ! and who can tell — 

Thou— England's England-loving daughter— thou 

Dying so English thou wouldst have her flag 

Borne ou thy cofiiu— where is he can swear 

But that some broken gleam from our poor earth 

May touch thee, while roniembering thee, I lay 

At thy pale feet tliis ballad of tlie deeds 

Of England, and her banner iu the East ? 



THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. 



Bannkr of England, not for a season, O banner of 
Britain, hast thou 

Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle-cry ! 

Never with mightier glory than when we had rear'd 
thee on high. 

Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege of 
Luckuow— 

Shot thro' the staff or the halyard, but ever we raised 
thee anew, 

And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of Eng- 
land blew. 

IL 

Frail were the works tliat defended the hold that we 

held with our lives — 
Women and children among us, God help them, our 

children and wives ! 
Hold it we might — and for fifteen days or for twen- 
ty at most. 
" Never surrender, I charge you, but every man die 

at his post !" 
Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence the 

best of tlie brave : 
Cold were his brows when we kiss'd him — we laid 

him that uight iu his grave. 
"Every man die at his post!" and there hail'd on our 

houses aud halls 
Death from their rifle-bullets, and deatli from their 

cannon-balls, 
Death in our innermost chamber, and death at our 

slight barricade, 
Death while we stood with the musket, and death 

while we stoopt to the spade. 
Death to the dying, and wounds to tlie wounded, for 

often there fell. 
Striking the hospital wall, crashing thro' it, their shot 

and their shell ; 
Death — for their spies were among us, their marks- 
men were told of our best, 
So that the brute bullet broke thro' the brain that 

could think for the rest ; 
Bullets would sing by our foreheads, aud bullets 

would rain at our feet — 
Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that 

girdled us round — 
Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the 

breadth of a street, 



37G 



THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOW. 



Death from the heights of the mosque' and the pal- 
ace, and death in tlie ground ! 

Mine? yes, a mine! Countermine! down, down! 
and creep thro' the hole '. 

Keep tlie revolver in hand ! You can hear him— the 
murderous mole. 

Quiet, ah ! quiet— wait till the point of the pickaxe 
be thro' ! 

Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again 
than before — 

Now let it speak, and you Are, and the dark pioneer 
is no niore ; 

And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of Eng- 
land blew. 

III. 

Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it 

chanced on a day 
Soon as the blast of that under-ground thunder-clap 

echo'd away. 
Dark thro' the smoke and the sulphur, like so many 

fiends in their hell — 
Cannon-shot, rausket-shot, volley on volley, and yell 

upon yell- 
Fiercely on all the defences our myriad enemy fell. 
What have they done ? where is it ? Out yonder. 

Guard the Kedan ! 
Storm at the Water-gate ! storm at the Bailey-gate ! 

storm ; and it ran 
Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every 

side 
Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily drowu'd 

by the tide- 
So many thousands that, if they be bold enough, 

who shall escape? 
Kill or be kill'd, live or die, they shall know we are 

soldiers and men ! 
Keady ! take aim at their leaders— their masses are 

gapp'd with our grape- 
Backward they reel like the wave, like the wave 

flinging forward again. 
Flying and foil'd at the last by the handful they 

could not subdue ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of 

England blew. 

IV. 

Handful of men as we were, we were English in 

heart and in limb; 
Strong with the strength of the race to command, 

to obey, to endure. 
Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung 

bjt on him ; 
Still— could we watch at all points? we were every 

day fewer and fewer. 
There was a whisper among us, but only a whisper 

that past: 
" Children and wives— if the tigers leap into the fold 

unawares — 
Every man die at his post— and the foe may outlive 

us at last- 
Better to fall by the hands that they love, than to 

fall into theirs !" 
Roar upon roar in a moment two mines by the 

enemy sprung 
Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor 

I)ali8ade8. 
Rifleman, true is your heart, but be sure that your 

hand be as true ! 
Sharp is the flre of assault, better aim'd are your 

flank fusillades — 
Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to 

which they had clung. 
Twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive 

them with hand-grenades ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of 

England blew. 



V. 

Then on another wild morning another wild earth- 
quake out-tore 
Clean from our lines of defence ten or tvi'elve good 

paces or more. 
Rifleman, high on the roof, hidden there from the 

light of the sun — 
One has leapt up on the breach, crying out, " Follow 

me, follow me !" 
Mark him — he falls ! then another, and Mm too, and 

down goes he. 
Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but 

the traitors had won ? 
Boardings and rafters and doors — an embrasure ! 

make way for the gun ! 
Now double-charge it with grape ! It is charged and 

we fire, and they run ! 
Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face 

have his due : 
Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, 

faithful and few. 
Fought with the bravest among us, and drove them, 

and smote them, and slew, 
That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India 

blew. 

VI. 

Men will forget what we s^uffer and not what we do. 

We can fight ; 
But to be soldier all day and be sentinel all thro' the 

night— 
Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, their lying 

alarms. 
Bugles and drums in the darkness, and shoutings and 

soundings to arms. 
Ever the labor of fifty that had to be done by five, 
Ever the marvel among us that one should be left 

alive, 
Ever the day with its traitorous death from the loop- 
holes around. 
Ever the night with its cofflnless corpse to be laid in 

the ground. 
Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge of cataract 

skies. 
Stench of old offal decaying, and infinite torment of 

flies, 
Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing over an 

English fleld. 
Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound that icould not 

be heal'd. 
Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful-pitiless 

knife — 
Torture and trouble in vain— for it never could save 

us a life. 
Valor of delicate women who tended the hospital bed, 
Horror of women in travail among the dynig and 

dead. 
Grief for our perishing children, and never a moment 

for grief, 
Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering hopes of relief, 
Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butcher'd for all that 

we knew — 
Then day and night, day and night, coming down on 

the still-shatter'd walls 
Millions of musket-bullets, and thousands of cannon- 

balls- 
But ever upon the topmost roof our banner of 

England blew. 

\1I. 

Hark cannonade, fusillade! is it true what was told 

by the scout? 
Outran! and Havelock breaking their way thro' the 

fell mutineers! 
Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing again in our 

ears! 
All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout. 



DE PROFUNDIS.— THE FIRST QUARREL. 



Havelock's glorious Highlauders answer with con- 
quering cheers, 

Forth from their holes and their hidings onr women 
and children come out, 

Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock's 
good fusileers, 

Kissing the war-h.irden'd hand of the Highlander wet 
with their tears ! 

Dance to the pibroch! — saved! we are saved! — is it 
you ? is it you ? 

Saved by tlie valor of Havelock, saved by the bless- 
ing of Heaven ! 

"Hold it for fifteen days!" we have held it for 
eightv-seven ! 

And evt'i- aloft on the palace roof the old banner 
of England blew. 



DE PROFUNDIS. 

TWO GREETINGS. 



Oct of the deep, my child, out of the deep, 
Where all that was to be in all that was 
Whirl'd for a million icons thro' the vast 
Waste dawn of multitudinous-eddying light — 
Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep, 
Thro' all this changing world of changeless law, 
And every phase of ever-heighiening life. 
And nine long months of antenatal gloom, 
Witli this last moon, this crescent — her dark orb 
Touch'd with earth's light^thon couiest, darling boy 
Our own ; a babe in lineament and limb 
Perfect, and prophet of the perfect man ; 
Whose face and form are hers and mine in one, 
Indissolubly married like our love ; 
Live and be happy in thyself, and serve 
This mortal race thy kin so well that men 
May bless thee as we bless thee, O young life 
Breaking with laughter from the dark, and may 
The fated channel where thy motion lives 
Be prosperously shaped, and sway thy course 
Along the j'ears of haste and randmn yonth 
Unsliatter'd, then full-current thro' full man. 
And hist in kindly curves, with gentlest fall. 
By quiet fields, a slowly-dying power. 
To that last deep where we and thou are still 



1. 
Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep. 
From that great deep before our world begins 
Whereon the Spirit of God moves as he will — 
Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep, 
From that true world within the world we see. 
Whereof our world is but the bounding shore — 
Out of the deep, Spirit, out of the deep. 
With this ninth moon which sends the hidden sun 
Down yon dark sea, thou comest, darling boy. 



For in the world, which is not onrs, They said 
"Let us make man" and that which should be man, 
From that one light no man can look upon. 
Drew to this shore lit by the sons and moons 
And all the shadt)ws. O dear Spirit half-lost 
In thine ovm shadow and this fleshly sign 
That thiin art thou— who wailest being boru 
And banish'd into mystery, and the pain 
Of this divisible-indivisible world 
i^mong the nnmeiable-innumerable 
Sun, sun, and sun, thro' finite-intinite space 
In flnite-intinite time— our mortal veil 
And shatter'd phantom of that infinite One, 
Who made thee unconceivably thyself 
Out of His whole World-self and all in all- 
Live thou, and of the grain and husk, the grape 



And ivy-berry, choose; and still depart 

From death to death thro' life and life, and find 

Nearer and ever nearer Him who wrought 

Not Matter, nor the finite-infinite, 

But this main miracle, that thou art thou. 

With power on thine own act and on the world, 

THE HUMAN CRY. 



Hat.lowkt) be thy Name — Halleluiah ! — 

Infinite Ideality ! 

Immeasnrable Reality! 

Infinite Personality ! 

Hallowed be Thy name— Halleluiah ! 



Wc feel we are nothing— for all is Thou and in Thee; 
We feel we are something— </i«f also has come from 

Thee ; 
We are nothing, O Thou— but Thou wilt help us to be. 
Hallowed be Thy name— Halleluiah ! 



THE FIRST QUARREL. 
(IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT.) 



"Wait a little," you say, "you are sure it '1! all 

come right," 
But the boy was boru i' trouble, an' looks so wan 

an' so white : 
Wait ! an' once I ha' waited — I hadn't to wait for long. 
Now I wait, wait, wail for Harry. — No, no, you are 

doing me wrong ! 
Harry and I were married : the boy can hold up 

his head, 
The boy was born in wedlock, but after my man 

was dead ; 
I ha' work'd for him fifteen years, an' I work an' I 

wait to the end. 
I am all alone in the world, an' you are my only 

friend. 

II. 
Doctor, if you can wait, I'll tell you the tale o' my life. 
When Harry an' I were children, he call'd me his 

own little wife ; 
I was happy when I was with him, an' sorry when 

he was away. 
An' when we play'd together, I loved him better 

than play ; 
He workt me the daisy chain — he made me the 

cowslip ball, 
He fought the boys that were rude, an' I loved him 

better than all. 
Passionate girl tho' I was, an' often at home in 

disgrace, 
I never could quarrel with Harry— I had but to look 

in his face. 

III. 
There was a farmer in Dorset of Harry's kin, that 

had need 
Of a good stout lad at his farm ; he sent, an' the 

father agreed ; 
So Harry was bound to the Dorsetshire farm for 

years an' for years ; 
I walked with him down to the quay, poor lad, an' 

we parted in tears. 
The boat was begiuniiig to move, we heard them 

a-ringing the bell, 
"I'll never love any but you, God bless you, my 

own little Nell." 



878 



THE FIRST QUARREL. 



I w:is a child, an' he was a child, au' he came to For Harry came in, an' I flung him the letter that 



hiirm ; 
There was a girl, a hussy, that workt with him up 

at the farm, 
One had deceived her au' left her alone with her 

eiu au' her shame, 
Aud so she was wicked with Harry ; the girl was 

the most to blame. 

V. 

And years went over till I that was little had grown 

so tall. 
The men would say of the maids "Our Nelly's the 

flower of 'em all." 
I didn't take heed o' them, but I taught myself all 

I could 
To make a good wife for Harry, when Harry came 

home for good. 

" VI. 

Often I seem'd unhappy, and often as happy too, 
For I lieard it aln-oad iii the fields "I'll never love 

any but you ;" 
"I'll never love any but you" the morning song of 

the liirk, 
"I'll never love any but you " the nightingale's hymn 

in the dark. 

VII. 

And Harry came home at last, but he look'd at me 

sidelong and shy, 
Vext me a bit, till he told me that so many years 

had gone by, 
I had grown so handsome aud tall— that I might ha' 

ftjrgot him somehow — 
For he thought — there were other lads — he was 

fear'd to look at me now. 



Hard was the frost in the field, we were married o' 

Christmas-day, 
Married among the red berries, an' all as merry as 

May— 
Those were the pleasant times, my house an' my 

man were my pride. 
We seem'd like ships i' the Channel a-sailing with 

wind an' tide. 

IX. 

But work was scant in the Isle, tho' he tried the 

villages round. 
So Harry went over the Solent to see if work could 

be found ; 
An' he wrote "I ha' sis weeks' work, little wife, so 

far as I know ; 
I'll come for au hour to-morrow, an' kiss you before 

I go." 

X. 

So I set to righting the house, for wasn't he coming 

that day? 
Au' I hit on au old deal -box that was push'd in a 

corner away. 
It was full of old odds an' ends, au' a letter along 

wi' the rest, 
I had better ha' put my naked hand in a hornets' 

nest. 

XI. 

"Sweetheart"— this was the letter— this was the let- 
ter I read — 

"You promised to find me work near you, an' I wish 
I was dead — 

Didn't you kiss me au' promise? you haven't done 
it, my lad, 

An' I almost died o' your going away, an' I wish 
that I had." 

xit. 

I too wish that I had — in the pleasant times that 

had past, 
Befoi-e I quarrell'd with Harry— m?/ quarrel— the first 

an' the last. 



drove me wild. 
An' he told it me all at ouce, as simple as any 

child, 
"What can it matter, my lass, what I did wi' my 

single life? 
I ha' been as true to you as ever a man to his wife; 
An' she wasn't one o' the worst." "Then," I said, 

"I'm none o' the best." 
An' he smiled at me, ".Ain't you, my love? Come, 

come, little wife, let it rest! 
The man isn't like the woman, no need to make such 

a stir." 
But he anger'd me all the more, an' I said "Yon 

were keeping with her. 
When I was a-loving you all along an' the same as 

before." 
An' he didn't speak for a while, an' he anger'd me 

more and moie. 
Then he patted my hand in his gentle way, " Let by- 
gones be I" 
"Bygones! you kept yours hushed," I said, "when 

you married nie ! 
By-gones ma' be come-agains ; an' she — in her 

shame an' her sin — 
Y"ou'll have her to nurse my child, if I die o" my 

lyiug in ! 
Y'ou'll make her its second mother ! I hate her— 

an' I hate you 1" 
Ah, Harry, my man, you had better ha' beaten me 

black and blue 
Than ha' spoken as kind as you did, when I were 

so crazy wi' spite, 
"Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it 'ill all come 

right." 

XIV. 

An' he took three turns in the rain, an' I watch'd 

him, an' when he came in 
I felt that my heart was hard, he was all wet thro' 

to the skin, 
An' I never said "off wi' the wet," I never said "on 

wi' the dry," 
So I knew my heart was hard, when he came to bid 

me good-bye. 
"You said that you hated me, Ellen, but that isn't 

true, you know ; 
I am going to leave you a bit— you'll kiss me before 

I go?" 

XV. 

" Going ! you're going to her— kiss her— if you will," 

I said,— 
I was near my time wi' the boy, I must ha' been 

light i' my head — 
"I had soouer be cursed than kiss'd!" — 1 didn't 

know well what I meant. 
But I turn'd my face from him, au' he lurn'd ttis 

face an' he weut. 

XVI. 

Aud then he sent me a letter, "I've gotten my work 

to do ; 
You wouldn't kiss me, my lass, an' I never loved 

any but you ; 
I am sorry for all the quarrel an' sorry for what she 

wrote, 
I ha' six weeks' work in Jersey an' go to-night by 

the boat." 

XVII, 

Au' the wind began to rise, an' I thought of him out 

at sea. 
An' I felt I had been to blame; he was always kind 

to me. 
"Wait a little, ray lass, I am sure it 'ill all come 

right"— 
Au' the boat went down that night— the boat went 

down that night. 



RTZPAH. 



579 



RIZPAH. 

17—. 

1. 

Waimng, wailing, wailing, the vviiid over Iniid and 

sea — 
And Willy's voice in the wind, "O mother, come out 

to me." 
Why should he call me to-night, when he Icnows 

that I cannot go? 
For the downs are as bright as day, and the full 

moon stares at the snow. 



We shonld be seen, my dear ; they would spy us out 
of the town. 

The loud black nights for us, and the storm rush- 
ing over the down, 

When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by the 
creak of the chain. 

And grovel and grope for my son till I lind myself 
drenched with the rain. 



Anything fallen again? nay — what was there left to 

"fall? 
I have taken them home, I have number'd the bones, 

I have hidden them all. 
What am I saying? and what are yout do you come 

as a spy ? 
Falls? what falls? who knows? As the tree falls so 

must it lie. 

IV. 

Who let her in? how long has she been? you— what 

have you heard? 
Why did you sit so quiet? you never have spoken a 

word. 
O — to pray with me — yes — a lady — none of their 

spies — 
But the night has crept into my heart, and begun 

to darken my eyes. 



Ah— yon, that have lived so soft, what should you 

know of the night. 
The blast and the burning shame and the bitter 

frost and the fright? 
I have done it, while you were asleep — you were 

only made for the day. 
I have gather'd my baby together — and now you may 

go your way. 

VI. 

Nay — for it's kind of you, Madam, to sit by an old 

dying wife. 
But say nothing hard of my boy, I have only an 

hour of life. 
I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before he went out to 

die. 
"They dared me to do it," he said, and he never has 

told me a lie. 
I whipt him for robbing an orchard once when he 

was but a child — 
" The farmer dared me to do it," he said ; he was 

always so wild— 
And idle — and couldn't be idle — my Willy— he never 

conld rest. 
The King should have made him a soldier, he would 

have been one of his best. 



But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they 

never would let him be good; 
They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and he 

swore that he would ; 
And he took no life, but he took one purse, and 

when all was done 
He flung it among his fellows— I'll none of it, said 

my son. 



I came into court to the Judge and the lawyers. I 

told them my tale, 
God's own truth— but they kill'd him, they kill'd him 

for robbing the mail. 
They hang'd him in chains for a show — we had al- 
ways borne a good name — 
To be hang'd for a thief- and then put away— isn't 

that enough shame? 
Dust to dust— low down— let us hide \ but they set 

him so high 
That all the ships of the world could stare at him, 

passing by. 
God 'ill pardon the hell-black raven and horrible 

fowls of the air. 
But not the black heart of the lawyer who kill'd 

him and hang'd him there. 



And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him my 

last goodbye ; 
They had fasten'd the door of his cell. " O mother 1" 

I heard him cry. 
I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he had something 

further to say. 
And now I never shall know it. The jailer forced 

me away. 

X. 

Then since I couldn't but hear that cry of my boy 

that was dead. 
They seized me and shut me up: they fasten'd me 

down on my bed. 
"Mother, O mother!" — he call'd in the dark to me 

year after year — 
They beat me for that, they beat me — you know 

that I couldn't but hear; 
Aud then at the last they found I had grown so 

stupid and still 
They let me abroad again — but the creatures had 

worked their will. 



Flesh of my flesh was gone, bat bone of my bone 

was left — 
I stole them all from the lawyers — aud you, will 

you call it a theft? — 
My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, the bones 

that had laughed and had cried — 
Theirs? O no! they are mine — not theirs — they had 

moved in my side. 



Do you think I was scared by the bones? I kiss'd 

'em, I buried 'em all — 
I can't dig deep, I am old — in the night by the 

churchyard wall. 
My Willy 'ill rise up whole when the trumpet of 

judgment 'ill sound. 
But I charge you never to say that I laid him in 

holy ground. 



They wonld scratch him up— they would hang him 

again on the cursed tree. 
Sin? O yes — we are sinners, I know — let all that be, 
And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's good will 

toward men — 
"Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord" — let me 

hear it again ; 
"Full of compassion aud mercy — long-sufl'eriug." 

Yes, O yes ! 
For the lawyer is born but to murder— the Saviour 

lives but to bless. 
We'll never put on the black cup except for the 

worst of the worst, 
And the first may be last- 1 have heard it in church 

—and the last may be first. 



380 



THE NORTHERN COBBLER. 



Siiffei-iiig — O long-suffei'ing — yes, as the Lord must 

know, 
Year after year iu the mist aud the wind aud the 

shower and the snow. 



Heard, have you? what? they have told you he 

never repented his sin. 
How do they know it? are they his mother? are 

you of his liin ? 
Heard ! have you ever heard, when the storm on the 

downs began, 
The wind that 'ill wail like a child and the sea 

that 'ill moan like a man ? 



Election, Election and Keprobation — it's all very 

well, 
But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not find 

him in Hell. 
For I cared so much for my boy that the Lord has 

look'd into my care. 
And He means me, I'm sure, to be happy with 

Willy, I know not where. 



And if he be lost — but to save my soul, that is all 

your desire: 
Do you think that I care for tny soul if my boy be 

gone to the fire? 
I have been with God in the dark — go, go, you may 

leave me alone — 
You never have borne a child — you are just as hard 

as a stone. 

XVII. 

Madam, I beg your pardon ! I think that you mean 
to be kind. 

But I cannot hear what you say for my Willy's 
voice in the wind— 

The snow and the sky so bright — he used but to 
call in the dark. 

And he calls to me now from the church and not 
from the gibbet— for hark ! 

Nay— yon can hear it yourself— it is coming— shak- 
ing the walls — 

Willy — the moon's in a cloud Good -night. I 

am going. He calls. 



THE NORTHERN COBBLER. 



Waait till our Sally cooms in, fur thou mun a' 

sights* to tell. 
Eh, but I be uiailiu glad to seeii tha sa 'arty an' 

well. 
" Cast awaiiy on a disolut land wi' a vartical soont !" 
Strange fur to goii fur to think what saailors a' 

setJan an' a' doon ; 
"Summat to drink— sa' 'ot?" I 'a uowt but Adam's 

wine: 
What's the 'e;it o' this little 'ill -side to the 'feat o' 

the line? 

II. 

"What's 1' tha bottle a-stauning Iheer?" I'll tell 

tha. Gin. 
But if thou wants thy grog, tha mun goii fur it 

down to the inn. 



* The vowels o't, pronounced separately though in the closest con- 
junction, best render the sound of tlie ionn t and y in this dialect. 
But since such words as crdiin', ddiin', whdi, ai (I), etc., look awkward 
except in a pajje of express phonetics, I have thought it better to leave 
the simple t and y, and to trust that my readers will give them the 
broader pronunciation. 

t The 00 short, as in " wood.'* 



Naay — fur I be maiiiu-glad, but thaw tha was iver 

sa dry. 
Thou gits naw gin fro' the bottle theer, an' I'll tell 

tha why. 

III. 
Meii an' thy sister was married, when wur it? back- 
end o' June, 
Ten year sin', and wa 'greed as well as a fiddle i' 

tune : 
I could fettle and clump owd booiits and shoes wi' 

the best on 'em all. 
As fer as fro' Thursby thurn hup to Hannsby aud 

Hutterby Hall. 
We was busy as beeiis i' the bloom an' as 'appy as 

'art could think. 
An' then the babby wur burn, and then I taiikes to 

the drink. 

IV. 

An' I weiiut gaainsaiiy it, my lad, thaw I be hafe 

shaiimed on it now. 
We could sing a good song at the Plow, we could 

sing a good song at the Plow ; 
Thaw once of a frosty night I slither'd an' hurted 

my buck,* 
An' I coom'd iieck-an-crop soomtiraes slaape down 

i' the squad an' the muck : 
An' once I fowt wi' the Taailor— not hafe ov a man, 

my lad — 
Fur he scrawm'd an' scratted my faiice like a cat, 

an' it maiide 'er sa mad 
That Sally she tnrn"d a tongue- banger,t an' raiited 

ma, "Soitin' thy braiiius 
Guz/.lin' an' soiikiu' au' smoiikin' an' hawmin't about 

i' the laaues. 
Soil sow-droonk that tha doesn not touch thy 'at 

to the Squire ;" 
An' I loook'd cock-eyed at my noase an' I seead 

'im a-gittin' o' fire ; 
But sin' I wur hallus i' liquor an' hallus as droonk 

as a king, 
Foiilks' coostom flitted awaiiy like a kite wi' a brok- 

keu string. 

v. 

An' Sally she wesh'd foiilks' cloiiths to keep the 

wolf fro' the door. 
Eh but the moor she riled me, she druv me to drink 

the moo]-. 
Fur I fun', when 'er back wur turn'd, wheer Sally's 

owd stockin' wur 'id. 
An' I grabb'd the munuy she maiide, aud I weiir'd 

it o' liquor, I did. 



An' one night I cooms 'cffim like a bull gotten loose 

at a faiiir, 
An' she wur a-waaitin' fo'mma, an' cryiu' and teiir- 

in' 'er 'aiiir. 
An' I tummled athurt the craiidle an' s weiir'd as 

I'd breiik ivry stick 
O' furnitur 'ere i' the 'ouse, an' I gied our Sally a 

kick. 
An' I mash'd the taables an' chairs, an" she an' the 

babby beiil'd,? 
Fur I knaw'd naw moor what I did nor a mortal 

beiist o' the feiild. 



An' when I waiiked i' the muruin' I seead that our 

Sally went laiimed 
Cos' o' the kick as I gied 'er, an' I wur dreiidful 

ashaiimed ; 
An' Sally wur sloomyl an' draggle-taiiil'd in an owd 

turn gown. 
An' the babby's faace wurn't wesh'd, au' the 'ole 

'ouse hnpside down. 



*Hip. 

§ Bellowed, cried out. 



+ Scold. t Lounging. 

II Sluggish, out of spirits. 



THE NORTHERN COBBLER. 



381 



An' then I minded our Sally sa pratty au' ueat an' 

eweeat, 
Straal as a pole an' cleiiii as a flower fro' 'ead to 

feej'it : 
Au' then I minded the fust kiss I gied 'er by Thius- 

by tliurn ; 
Theer wur a lark a-singiu' 'is best of a Sunday at 

niurn, 
Couldn't see 'im, we 'eard im a-mountin' oop 'igher 

an' 'igher, 
An' then 'e turn'd to the sun, an' 'e shined like a 

sparkle o' lire, 
"Doesn't tha see 'im," she axes, "fur I can see 

'im?" au I 
Seeiid nobbnt the smile o' the sun as danced in "er 

pratty blue eye ; 
An' I says "I mun gie tha a kiss," an' Sally says 

" Noii, thcui moiiut," 
But I gied 'er a kiss, an' then anoother, an' Sally 

says " Doiiut !" 

IX. 

An' when we coora'd into Meeiitiu', at fust she wur 

all in a tew, 
But, arter, we sing'd the 'ymu togither like birds on 

a beugh ; 
An' Muggins 'e preiich'd o' Hell-fire an' the loov o' 

God fur men, 
An' then upo' coomiu' awaay Sally gied me a kiss 

ov 'erseu. 

X. 

Heer wur a fall fro' a kiss to a kick like Saatau as 

fell 
Down out o' heaven i' Hell-fire — thaw theer's naw 

drinkin' i' Hell ; 
Meii fur to kick our Sally as kep the wolf fro' the 

door, 
All along o' the drink, fur I loov'd 'er as well as 

afoor. 

XI. 

Sa like a graat num-cumpus I blubber'd awaay o' 

the bed — 
"Weiiut uiver do it naw moor;" an' Sally loookt up 

an' she said, 
"I'll upowd it* tha weant; thou'rt laike the rest o' 

the men, 
Thou'll goa sniiSu' about the tap till tha does it 

agean. 
Theer's thy hennemy, man, an' I knaws, as knaws 

tha sa well, 
That, If tha seeiis 'im an' smells 'im tha'll foller 'im 

slick into Hell." 

XII. 

"Naiiy," says I, "fur I weiiut goii suiffln' about the 

tap." 
"Weiiut tha?" she says, an' mysen I thowt i' mysen 

"mayhap." 
"Noa:" an' I started awaay like a shot, an' down 

to the Hinn, 
An' I browt what tha seeiis stauuiu' theer, you big 

black bottle o' gin. 

XIII. 

"That caps owt,"t says Sally, an' saw she begins to 
cry, 

But I puts it inter 'er 'ands an' I says to 'er, "Sal- 
ly," says I, 

"Stan' 'im theer i' the naame o' the Lord an' the 
power ov 'is Oraace, 

Stan' 'im theer, fur I'll loook my hennemy strait i' 
the faiice, 

Stan' 'im theer i' the winder, an' let ma looiik at 'im 
then, 

E' seeanis naw moor nor watter, an' 'e's the Divil'a 
oiin sen." 



* I'll uphold it. 



f That's beyond everything. 



An' I wur down i' tha mouth, couldn't do naw work 

an' all, 
Nasty an' snaggy an' shaiiky, an' poonch'd my 'and 

wi' the hawl. 
But she wur a power o' coomfut, an' settled 'erseu 

o' my knee, 
An' coiixd an' coodled me oop till agean I feel'd 

myseu free. 

XV. 

An' Sally she telTd it about, an' foulk stood a-gawm- 

in'* iu, 
As thaw it wur summat bewitch'd istead of a quart 

o' gin; 
Au' some on 'era said it wur watter — an' I wur 

chousiu' the wife, 
Fur I couldn't 'owd 'ands off gin, wur it uobbut to 

saave my life ; 
An' blacksmith 'e strips me the thick ov 'is airm, 

an' 'e shaws it to me, 
"Feual thou this ! thou cau't graw this upo' watter !" 

says he. 
An' Doctor 'c calls o' Sunday an' just as candles was 

lit, 
"Thou moiiut do it," he says, "tha mun break 'im 

off bit by bit." 
"Thou'rt but a Methody-mau," says Parson, and 

laiiys down 'is 'at. 
An' 'e points to the bottle o' gin, " but I respecks 

tha fur that ;" 
Au' Squire, his oiin very sen, walks down fro' the 

'All to see, 
An' 'e spanks 'is 'and into mine, "fur I respecks 

tha," says 'e ; 
An' coostom ageiin draw'd iu like a wind fro' for 'an 

wide, 
And browt me the booOts to be cobbled fro' hafe the 

coontryside. 

XVI. 

An' theer 'e stans an' tUeer 'e shall stau to my dy- 

iug daily; 
I 'a gotten to loov 'im ageiin in anoother kind of a 

waiiy. 
Proud ou 'im, like, my lad, an' I keeiips 'im cleau 

an' bright, 
Loovs 'im, an' roobs .'im, au' doosts 'im, and puts 'im 

back i' the light. 

XVII. 

Wouldn't a piut a' sarved as well as a quart? Naw 
doubt; 

But I liked a bigger feller to fight wi' an' fowt it 
out. 

Fine an' meller 'e mun be by this, if I cared to 
taiiste, 

But I moiint, my lad, and I weiiut, fur I'd feiil my- 
sen cleiin disgraiiced. 

XVIII. 

An' once I said to the Missis, "My lass, when I 

cooms to die. 
Smash the bottle to smithers, the Divil's in 'im," 

said I. 
But arter I chaiinged my miud, au' if Sally be left 

aloiiu, 
I'll hev 'em a-buried wi'mma an' taiike 'im afoor the 

Throiin. 

XIX. 

Coom thou 'eer — you laiidy a-steppiu' along the 

streeiit. 
Doesn't tha kuaw 'er — sa pratty, au' feiit, an' neat, 

an' sweeat? 
Look at the cloiiths on 'er back, thebbe ammost 

spick-span-new. 
An' Tommy's faiice is as fresh as a codliu 'at'a 

wesh'd i' the dew. 



Staring vacantly. 



r.82 



THE SISTERS. 



'Ere's our Sally au' Tommy, an' we be a-goiu' to 

diue, 
Baacon an' taiites, an' a besliugs-pnddiu'* an' Adam's 

wine ; 
But if tha wants ony grog tha mun goii fur it down 

to the Hinn, 
Pur I weiiut shed a drop on 'is blood, noa, not fur 

Sally'6 can kin. 



THE SISTERS. 

Thry have left the door ajar; and by their clash, 
And prelude on the keys, I know the song. 
Their favorite — wliich I call "The Tables Turned." 
Evelyn begins it "O diviner Air." 

EVET.YN. 

O diviner Air, 

Thro' the heat, the drouth, the dust, the glare, 

Far from out the west in siiadowing showers, 

Over all the meadow baked and bare, 

Making fresh and fair 

All the bowers and the flowers. 

Fainting flowers, faded bowers. 

Over all this weary world of ours. 

Breathe, diviner Air ! 

I 

A sweet voice that— you scarce could better that. 
Now follows Edith echoing Evelyn. 

EDITH. 

O diviner light. 

Thro' the cloud that roofs our noon with night, 
Thro' the blotting mist, the blinding showers, 
Far from out a sky forever bright, 
Over all the woodland's flooded bowers, 
Over all the meadow's drowning flowers. 
Over all this ruin'd world of ours, 
Break, diviner light ! 

Marvellously like, their voices— and themselves 1 

Tho' one is somewhat deeper than the other, 

As one is somewhat graver than the other — 

Edith than Evelyn. Your good Uncle, whom 

You count the father of your fortune, longs 

For this alliance: let me ask you then, 

Which voice most takes you ? for I do not doubt, 

Being a watchful parent, you are taken 

With one or other: tho' sometimes I fear 

You may be fliclceriug, fluttering in a d<iubt 

Between the two — which must not be — which might 

Be death to one: they both are beautiful: 

Evelyn is gayer, wittier, prettier, says 

The common voice, if one may trust it: she? 

No ! but the paler and the graver, Edith. 

Woo her and gain her then: no wavering, boy 1 

The graver is perhaps the one for you 

Who jest and laugh so easily and so well. 

For love will go by contrast, as by likes. 

No sisters ever prized each other more. 
Not so: their mother and her sister loved 
More passionately still. 

But that my best 
And oldest friend, your Uncle, wishes it, 
And that I know you worthy everyway 
To be my son, I might, perchance, be loath 
To i)art them, or part from them : and yet (Uie 
Should marry, or all the broad lands in ytmr view 
From this bay window — which our house has held 
Three hundred years— will pass collaterally. 

• A pudding made with the first millt of the cow aft«r calving. 



My father with a child on either knee, 
A hand upon the head of either child. 
Smoothing their locks, as golden as his own 
Were silver, "get them wedded" would he say. 
And once my prattling Edith ask'd him "why?" 
Ay, why? said he, "for why should I go lame?" 
Tlien told them of his wars, and of his wound. 
For see— this wine— the grape from whence it flow'd 
Was blackening on the slopes of Portugal, 
When that brave soldier, down the terrible ridge 
Plunged in the last fierce charge at Waterloo, 
And caught the laming bullet. He left me this, 
Which yet retains a memory of its youth. 
As I of mine, and my first passion. Come! 
Here's to your happy union with my child ! 

Yet must you change your name: no fault of mine! 
You say that you can do it as willingly 
As birds make ready for their bridal-time 
By change of feather: for all that, my boy. 
Some birds are sick and sullen when they moult. 
An old and worthy name ! but mine that stirr'd 
Among our civil wars and earlier too 
Among the Roses, the more venerable. 
/ care not for a name— no fault of mine. 
Once more— a happier marriage than my own ! 

You see yon Lombard poplar on the plain. 
The highway running by it leaves a breadth 
Of sward to left and right, where, long ago. 
One bright May morning in a world of song, 
I lay at leisure, watching overhead 
The aurial poplar wave, au amber spire. 

I dozed ; I woke. An open landaulet 
Whirl'd by, which, after it had past me, show'd 
Turning my way, the loveliest face on earth. 
The face of one there sitting opposite. 
On whom I brought a strange unhappiness, 
That time I did not see. 

Love at first sight 
May seem — with goodly rhyme and reason for it — 
Possible— at first glimpse, and for a face 
Gone in a moment — strange. Yet once, when first 
I came on lake Llanberris in the dark, 
A moonless night with storm — one lightning-fork 
Flash'd out the lake ; and tho' I loiter'd there 
The full day after, yet in relrosjiect 
That less than momentary thunder-sketch 
Of lake and mountain conquers all the day. 

The Sun himself has limn'd the face for me. 
Not quite so quickly, no, nor half as well. 
For look you here — the shadows are too deep, 
And like the critic's blurring comment make 
The veriest beauties of the work a|)pear 
The darkest faults: the sweet eyes frowu: the lips 
Seem but a gash. My sole memorial , 
Of Edith— uo the other,— both indeed. 

So that bright face was flash'd thro' sense and soul 
And by the poplar vanisli'd — to be found 
Long after, as it seein'd, beneath tlie tall 
Tree -bowers, and those long -sweeping becchcTi 

boughs 
Of our New Forest. I was there alone: 
The phantom of the whirling landaulet 
For ever past me by : when one quick peal 
Of laughter drew me thro' the glimmering glades 
Down to the suowlike sparkle of a cloth 
On fern and foxglove. Lo, the face again. 
My Rosalind in this Arden— Edith— all 
One bloom of youth, health, beauty, happiness. 
And moved to merriment at a passing jest. 

There one of those about her knowing me 
Call'd me to join them ; so with these I spent 
What seem'd my crowniiig hour, my day of days. 



THE SISTERS. 



38:? 



I woo'd her then, iior unsuccessfully, 
The worse for her, for me! wns I content? 
Ay— no, not quite ; for now and then I thought 
Laziness, vague love-longings, the bright May, 
Had made a heated haze to magnify 
The charm of Edith— that a man's ideal 
Is high in Heaven, and lodged with Plato's God, 
Not tindable here — content, and not content, 
In some such fashion as a man may be 
That having had the portrait of his friend 
Drawn by an artist, looks at it, and says, 
"Good! very like! uot altogether he." 

As yet I had not bound myself by words, 
Only, believing I loved Edith, made 
^dith love niAi. Then came the clay when I, 
Flatteiing myself that all ray doubts were fools 
Born of the fool this Age that doubts of all — 
Not I that day of Edith's love or mine — 
Had braced my purpose to declare myself: 
I stood upon the stairs of Paradise. 
The golden gates would open at a word. 
I spoke it — told her of my passion, seen 
And lost and found again, had got so far. 
Had caught her hand, her eyelids fell — I heard 
Wheels, and a noise of welcome at the doors — 
On a sudden, after two Italian years 
Had set the blossom of her health again. 
The younger sister, Evelyn, enter'd — there. 
There was the face, and altogether she. 
The mother fell about the daughter's neck. 
The sisters closed in one another's arms. 
Their people throng'd about them from the hall, 
And in the thick of question and reply 
I fled the house, driven by one angel face, 
Aud all the Furies. 

I was bound to her; 
I could not free myself iu honor— bound 
Not by the sounded letter of the wcn'd. 
But counterpressures of the yielde<l hand 
That timorously and faintly echoed mine. 
Quick blushes, the sweet dwelling of her eyes 
Upon me when she thought I did not see — 
Were these uot bonds? nay, nay, but could I wed 

her 
Loving the other? do her that great wrong? 
Had I not dream'd I loved her yestermorn ? 
Had I not known where Love, at first a fear. 
Grew after marriage to full height and form ? 
Yet after marriage, that mock-sister there — 
Brother-in-law— the fiery nearness of it — 
Unlawful and disloyal brotherhood — 
What end but darkness could ensue from this 
For all the three ? So Love and Honor jari-'d, 
Tho' Love and Honor join'd to raise the full 
High-tide of doubt that sway'd me up aud down 
Advancing nor retreating. 

Edith wrote: 
"My mother bids me ask" (I did not tell you — 
A widow with less guile than many a child. 
God help the wrinkled children that are Christ's 
As well as the plump cheek— she wrought us harm. 
Poor soul, not knowing) "are you ill?" (so ran 
The letter) "you have not been here of late. 
You will not find me here. At last I go 
On that long-pnunised visit to the North. 
I told your wayside story to my mother 
Aud Evelyn. She remembers you. Farewell. 
Fray come aud see my mother. Almost blind 
With ever-growing cataract, yet she thinks 
She sees you wheu she hears. Again farewell." 

Cold words from one I had hoped to warm so far 
That I could stamp my image on her heart! 
"Pray come and see my mother, and farewell." 
Cold, but as welcome as free airs of heaven 
After a dungeon's closeness. Selfish, str.inge! 
What dwarfs are meul ray strangled vanity 

25 



Utter'd a stifled cry — to have vext myself 
And all in vain for her — cold heart or none — 
No bride for me. Yet so my path was clear 
To win the sister. 

Whom I woo'd and won. 

For Evelyn knew not of my former suit, 
Because the simple mother work'd upon 
By Edith pray'd me not to whisper of it. 
And Edith would be brides-maid on the day. 

But on that day, not being all at ease, 
I from the altar glancing back upon her. 
Before the first "I will" was utter'd, saw 
The brides-maid pale, statuedke, passionless — 
"No harm, no harm," I turn'd again, and placed 
My ring upon the finger of my bride. 

So, when we parted, Edith spoke no word, 
She wept no tear, but round my Evelyn clung 
In utter silence for so long, I thought 
"What will she never set her sister free?" 

We left her, happy each in each, and then, 
As tho' the happiness of each in each 
Were not enough, must fain have torrents, lakes. 
Hills, the great things of Nature and the fair. 
To lift us as it were from commonplace. 
And help us to our joy. Better have sent 
Our Edith thro' the glories of the earth. 
To change with her horizon, if true Love 
Were not his own imperial all-in-all. 

Far oflT we went. My God, I would uot live 
Save that I think this gross hard-seeming world 
Is our misshaping vision of the Powers 
Behind the world, that make our griefs our gains. 

For on the dark night of our marriage-day 
The great Tragedian, that had quench'd herself 
In that assumption of the brides-maid— she 
That loved me — our true Edith— her brain broke 
With over-acting, till she rose and fled 
Beneath a pitiless rush of Autumn rain 
To the deaf church — to be let in — to pray 
Before that altar— so I think: and there 
They found her beating the hard Protestant doors. 
She died aud she was buried ere we knew. 

I learut it first. I had to speak. At once 
The bright quick smile of Evelyn, that had sunn'd 
The morning of our marriage, past away: 
And on our home-return the daily want 
Of Edith iu the house, the garden, still 
Haunted us like her ghost ; and by-and-by, 
Either from that necessity for talk 
Which lives with blindness, or plain iimocence 
Of nature, or desire that her lost child 
Should earn from both the praise of heroism, 
The mother broke her promise to the dead. 
And told the living daughter with what love 
Edith had welcomed my brief wooing of her, 
And all her sweet self-sacrifice aud death. 

Henceforth that mystic bond betwixt the twins- 
Did I not tell you they were twins?— prevail'd 
So far that no caress could win my wife 
Back to that passionate answer of full heart 
I had from her at first. Not that her love, 
Tho' scarce as great as Edith's power of love, 
Had lessen'd, but the mother's garrulous wail 
For ever woke the unhappy Past again, 
Till that dead brides-maid, meant to be my bride. 
Put forth cold hands between us, and I fear'd 
The very fountains of her life were chill'd ; 
So took her thence, aud brought her here, and here 
She bore a child, whom reverently we call'd 
Edith ; and iu the second year was born 
A second— this I named from her own self, 
Evelyn; then two weeks— no more— she joined. 
In aud beyond the grave, that one she loved. 



384 



THE VILLAGE WIFE; OR, THE ENTAIL. 



Now in this quiet of declining life, 
Thro' dreams by night and triuicet* of the day, 
The sisters glide about ine hand in hand, 
Both beautiful alike, nor can I tell 
One from the other, no, nor care to tell 
One from the other, only know they come. 
They smile upon me, till, remembering all 
The love they both have borne me, and the love 
I bore them both— divided as I am 
From either by the stillness of the grave— 
I know not which of these I love the best. 

But yon love Edith ; and her own true eyes 
Are traitors to her; our quick Evelyn— 
Tlie merrier, prettier, wittier, as they talk. 
And not without good reason, my good sou- 
ls yet untoiich'd: and I that hold them both 
Dearest of all things— well, I am not sure— 
But if there lie a i)reference eitherway, 
And in the rich vocabulary of Love 
"Most dearest" be a true sui)erlative— 
I think / likewise love your Edith most. 



THE VILLAGE WIFE; OR, THE 

ENTAIL.* 

1. 

'OcBE - KEEPEK seut tha, my lass, fur New Squire 

coom'd last night. 
Butter an' heggs— yis— yis. I'll goii wi' tha back: 

all right ; 
Butter I warrants be prime, an' I warrants the heggs 

be as well, 
Hafe a pint o' milk runs out wheu ya breaks the 

shell. 

II. 
Sit thysen down fur a bit: hev a glass o' cowslip 

wine ! 
I liked the owd Sxuire an' 'is gells as thaw they was 

gells o' mine. 
Fur then we was all es one, the Squire an' 'is darters 

an' me. 
Hall but Miss Annie, the heldest, I nivir not took to 

she : 
But Nelly, the last of the cletch,t I liked 'er the fust 

on 'em all. 
Fur hoffens we talkt o' my darter es died C the 

fever at fall : 
An' I thowt 'twur the will o' the Lord, but Miss 

Annie she said it wur drasiins. 
Fur she hedn't naw coomfut in 'er, an' arn'd naw 

thanks fur 'er paains. 
Eh! thebbe all wi' the Lord my childer, I han't got- 
ten none ! 
Sa new Squire's coom'd wi' 'is taiiil iu 'is 'and, an' 

owd Squire's gone. 



'Fur 'staiite be i' taail, my lass: tha dosu' knaw what 

that be? 
But I knaws the law, I does, for the lawyer ha towd 

it me. 
"When theer's naw 'ciid to a 'Ouse by the fault o' 

that ere maiile- 
The gells they counts fur nowt, and the next un he 

taiikes the tai'iil." 

IV. 

What be the next un like? can tha tell ony harm 

on 'im, lass? — 
Naay sit down- naw 'urry— sa cowd !— hev another 

glass ! 



Straange an' cowd fur the time ! we may happen a 

fall o' snaw — 
Not es 1 cares fur to hear ouy harm, but 1 likes to 

knaw. 
An' I 'oiips es 'e beant boooklarn'd: but 'e dosu uot 

coom fro' the shere ; 
We'd anew o' that wi' the Squire, an' we haiites 

boooklarnin' ere. 



Fur Squire wur a Varsity scholard, an' niver lookt 
arter the land — 

Whoiits or turmuts or taiites — 'e 'ed hallus a boook 
i' 'is 'and, 

Hallus aloiin wi' 'is booiiks, thaw nigh upo' seven- 
ty year. 

An' boodks, what's booOks? thou kuaws thebbe ney- 
ther 'ere nor theer. 



An' the gells, they hedu't naw taiiils, an' the lawyer 

he towd it me 
That 'is taiiil were soii tied up es he couldn't cut 

down a tree ! 
'•Drat the trees," says I, to be sewer I haiites 'em, 

my lass. 
Fur we puis the muck o' the land, an' they sucks 

the muck fro' the grass. 



An' Squire wur hallus a-smiliu', an' gied to the 

tramps goiu' by — 
Au' all o' the wust i' the parish— wi' hoffens a drop 

iu 'is eye. 
An' ivry darter o' Squire's bed her awu ridiu-erse to 

'er.-en, 
Au' they rampaged about wi' their grooms, an' was 

'untin' arter the men, 
An' hallus a-dallackt* an' dizen'd out, an' a-buyiu' 

new cloiithes. 
While 'e sit like a graiit glimmer - gowk t wi' 'is 

glasses athurt 'is noiise. 
An' 'is noiise sa grufied wi' snuff es it couldn't be 

scroob'd awaiiy, 
Fur atweeu 'is reiidin' an' writin' 'e snift up a box 

in a daily. 
An' 'e niver runu'd arter the fox, nor arter the birds 

wi' 'is gun, 
An' 'e niver not shot one 'are, but 'e leiived it to 

Charlie 'is son. 
An' 'e niver uot tish'd 'is awn ponds, but Charlie 'e 

cotcird the pike. 
Fur 'e warn't not burn to the land, an' 'e didn't take 

kind to it like ; 
But I eiirs es 'e'd gie fur a howryt owd book thutty 

pound an' moor. 
An' 'e'd wrote an owd book, his awu sen, sa I knaw'd 

es 'e'd coom to be poor; 
An' 'e gied — I be fear'd fur to tell tha 'ow much^ 

fur an owd scralted stoiin. 
An' 'e digg'd up a loomp i' the land au' 'e got a 

brown pot an' a boiin, 
An' 'e bowt owd money, es wouldn't goii, wi' good 

govi^d o' the Queen, 
An' 'e bowt little statutes all-naiikt an' which was a 

shaame to be seen ; 
But 'e niver looiikt ower a bill, nor 'e niver not seed 

to owt, 
An' 'e niver knawd nowt but boooks, an' boooks, as 

thou knaws, beiUit uowt. 



But owd Squire's laiidy es long es she lived she kep 

'em all clear. 
Thaw es long es she lived I uiver had none of 'er 

darters 'ere ; 



See Dote to " Northern Gobbler.' 



t A brood of chickens. 



Overdrest in gay colors. 



t Owl. 



t Filthy. 



THE VILLAGE WIFE; OR, THE ENTAIL. 



385 



But arter she died we was all es one, the chikler an' 

me. 
An' sarviuts runn'd in an' out, an' oflfens we hed 'em 

to tea. 
Lawk! 'ow I langh'd when the lasses 'nd talk o' 

their Missis's wai'iys, 
An' the Missisis talk'd o' the lasses. — I'll tell tha 

some o' these daiiys. 
Hoiinly Miss Annie were saw stuck cop, like 'er 

mother afoor^ 
'Er an' 'er blessed darter — they niver derken'd my 

door. 

IX. 

An' Squire 'e smiled an' 'e smiled till 'e 'd gotten a 

fright at last, 
An' e' calls fur 'is son, fur the 'tuniey's letters they 

foUer'd sa fast ; 
But Squire wur afear'd o' 'is son, an' 'e says to 'im, 

meek as a mouse, 
"Lad, thou mnn cut off thy taail, or the gells 'ull 

goii to the 'Ouse, 
Fur I finds es I be that i' debt, es I 'oiips es thon'll 

'elp me a bit. 
An' if thou'll 'gree to cut off thy taail I may saiive 

mysen yit." 

X. 

But Charlie 'e sets back 'is ears, an' 'e sweiirs, an' 

'e says to 'im " Noa. 
I've gotten the 'staate by the taail an' be dang'd 

if I iver let goa ! 
Coom ! coom ! feyther," 'e says, "why shouldn't thy 

booOks be sowd ? 
I hears es soom o' thy booiiks mebbe worth their 

weight i' gowd." 

XI. 

Heiips an' heiips o' boooks, I ha' see'd 'era, belong'd 

to the Squire, 
But the lasses 'ed teiird out leaves i' the middle to 

kindle the fire ; 
Sa moast on 'is owd big boooks fetch'd nigh to 

uowt at the saale. 
And Squire were at Charlie ageau to git 'im to cut 

off 'is taiiil. 

XII. 

Ya wouldn't find Charlie's likes — 'e were that out- 
dacious at 'oiim. 

Not thaw ya went fur to raiike out Hell wi' a small- 
tooth coarnb — 

Droonk wi' the Quoloty's wine, au' droonk wi' the 
farmer's aiile, 

Mad wi' the lasses an' all— an' 'e wouldn't cut off 
the taiiil. 

XIII. 

Thou's coom'd oop by the beck ; and a thuru be 

a-grawin' theer, 
I niver ha seed it sa white wi' the Maay es I see'd 

it to-year — 
Theerabouts Charlie joompt — and it gied me a scare 

tother night. 
Fur I thowt it wur Charlie's ghoast i' the derk, fur 

it looiJkt sa white. 
"Billy," says 'e, "hev a joomp !" — thaw the banks 

o' the beck be sa high. 
Fur he ca'd 'is 'erse Billy-rough-un, thaw niver a 

hair wur awry ; 
But Billy fell bakkuds o' Charlie, an' Charlie 'e brok 

'is neck. 
So theer wur a hend o' the taiiil, fur 'e lost 'is taiiil 

i' the beck. 

XIV. 

Sa Is taiiil wur lost an' 'is boooks wur gone an' 'is 

boy wur deiid. 
An' Squire 'e smiled an' 'e smiled, but 'e niver not 

lift oop 'is eiid: 
Hallus a soft un Squire 1 an' 'e smiled, fur 'e hedu't 

naw friend, 
Sa feyther an' son was buried togither, an' this wur 

the hend. 



An' Parson as hesn't the call, nor the mooney, but 
hes the pride, 

'E reiids of a sewer an' sartan 'oiip o' the tother 
side ; 

But 1 beiint that sewer es the Lord, howsiver they 
praiiy'd an' praiiy'd. 

Lets them inter 'eaven eiisy es leiives fheir debts to 
be paiiid. 

Siver the mou'ds rattled down npo' poor owd Squire 
i' the wood. 

An' I cried along wi' the gells, fur they weiint niv- 
er coom to naw good. 



Fur Molly the youngest she walkt awaiiy wi' a 
hofHcer lad, 

An' nawbody 'eiird on 'er sin, sa o' coorse she be 
gone to the bad ! 

An' Lucy wur laiime o' one leg, sweet-'arts she niv- 
er 'ed none — 

Strniinge an' unheppeu* Miss Lucy I we naiimed her 
"Dot an' gaw one !" 

An' Hetty wur weak i' the hattics, wi'out ony harm 
i' the legs. 

An' the fever 'ed baiiked Jinny's 'eiid as bald as one 
o' them heggs, 

Au' Nelly wur up fro' the craiidle as big i' the 
month as a cow, 

An' saw she niuu hammergrate.t lass, or she weiint 
git a raaiite onyhow! 

An' es fur Miss Annie es call'd me afoor my awn 
foalks to my fauce 

"A hignorant village wife as 'ud hev to be larn'd 
her awn plaiice," 

Hes fur Miss Hannie the heldest hes now be a-graw- 
in' sa howd, 

I knaws that mooch o' sheii, es it beiint not fit to 
be towd ! 

XVII. 

Sa I didn't not taake it kindly ov owd Miss Annie 

to saiiy 
Es I should be talkin' ageiin 'em, es soon es they 

went awaiiy, 
Fur, lawks! 'ow I cried when they went, an' our 

Nelly she gied me 'er 'and. 
Fur I'd ha done owt fur the Squire an' 'is gells es 

belong'd to the land; 
Boooks, es I said afoor, thebbe neyther 'ere nor 

theer ! 
But I sarved 'em wi' butter an' heggs fur huppuds 

o' twenty year. 

XVIII. 

An' they hallus paiiid what I hax'd, sa I hallus 

deal'd wi' the Hall, 
Au' they knaw'd what butter wur, an' they knaw'd 

what a hegg wur an' all ; 
Hugger-mugger they lived, but they wasn't that eiisy 

to please. 
Till I gied 'em Hinjian curn, an' they laiiid big 

heggs es tha seeas ; 
An' I niver puts saiimet i' viy butter, they does it 

at Willis's farm, 
Taiiste another drop o' the wine — tweiint do tha 

naw harm. 

XIX. 

Sa new Squire's coom'd wi' 'is taiiil in 'is 'and, an' 

owd Squire's gone ; 
I heard 'im a roomlin' by, but arter my nightcap 

wur on ; 
Sa I han't clapt eyes on 'im yit, fur he coom'd last 

night sa laiite— 
Pluksh ! I ! § the hens i' the peas ! why didn't tha 

hesp tha gatite ? 



* Ungainly, awkward. t Emigrate. % Lard. 

§ A cry accompanied by a clapping of bands to scare trespassing 
fowl. 



380 



IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. 



TO THE REV. W. H. BROOKFIELD. 

Brooks, for they call'd you so that knew you best, 
Old Brooks, who loved so well to month my rhymes, 
How oft we two have heard St. Mary's chimes ! 
How oft the Cantab supper, host and guest. 
Would echo helpless laughter to your jest! 
How oft with him we paced that walk of limes, 
Him, the lost light of those dawn-golden times, 
Who loved you well ! Now both are gone to rest. 
You man of humorous melancholy mark, 
Dead of some inward agony — is it so? 
Our kindlier, trustier Jaques, past away ! 
I cannot laud this life, it looks so dark: 
SKia? ovap — dream of a shadow, go — 
God bless you. I shall joiu you in a day. 



IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL, 
EMMIE. 

I. 

Our doctor had call'd in another, I never had seen 

him before, 
But he sent a chill to my heart when I saw him 

come in at the door. 
Fresh from the surgery -schools of France and of 

other lands — 
Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, big merciless 

hands ! 
Wonderful cures he had done, O yes, but they said 

too of him 
He was hai)pier using the knife than in trying to 

save the limb, 
And that I can well believe, for he look'd so coarse 

and so red, 
I could think he was one of those who would break 

their jests on the dead, 
Aud mangle the living dog that had loved him and 

fawn'd at his knee— 
Drench'd with the hellish oorali — that ever such 

things should be ! 

II. 
Here was a boy — I am sure that some of onr chil- 

dren would die 
But for the voice of Love, and the smile, and the 

comforting eye — 
Here was a boy in the ward, every bone seem'd out 

of its place- 
Caught in a mill and crush'd— it was all but a hope- 
less case: 
And he handled him gently enough : but his voice 

and his face were not kind, 
And it was but a hopeless case, he had seen it and 

made u)) his mind. 
And he said to me roughly "The lad will need little 

more of your care." 
"All the more need," I told him, "to seek the Lord 

Jesus in prayer ; 
They are all his children here, and I pray for them 

all as my own :" 
But he turned to me, "Ay, good woman, can prayer 

set a broken bone?" 
Then he mutter'd half to himself, but I know that I 

heard him say 
"All very well— but the good Lord Jesus has had 

his day." 

III. 

Had? has it come? It has only dawn'd. It will 

come by-and-by. 
O how could I serve in the wards if the hope of the 

world were a lie ? 
How could I bear with the sights and the loathsome 

smells of disease. 
But that He said "Ye do it to me, when ye do it to 

these?'' 



So he went. And we past to this ward where the 

younger children are laid: 
Here is the cot of our orphan, our darling, our meek 

little maid ; 
Empty you see just now! We have lost her who 

loved her so much — 
Patient of pain tho' as quick as a sensitive plant to 

the touch ; 
Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often moved me to 

tears, 
Hers was the gratefullest heart I have found in a 

child of her years — 
Nay yon remember our Emmie ; you used to send 

her the flowers ; 
How she would smile at 'em, play with 'em, talk to 

'em hours after hours I 
They that can wander at will where the works of 

the Lord are reveal'd 
Little guess what joy can be got from a cowslip out 

of the field ; 
Flowers to these "spirits in prison" are all they 

can know of the spring, 
They fieshen and sweeten the wards like the waft 

of an Angel's wing; 
And slie lay with a flower in one hand and her thin 

hands crost on her breast — 
Wan, but as pretty as heart can desire, and we 

thought her at rest. 
Quietly sleeping — so quiet, our doctor said, "Poor 

little dear. 
Nurse, I must do it to-morrow ; she'll never live 

thro' it, I fear." 

V. 

I walk'd with our kindly old Doctor as far as the 

head of the stair, 
Then I return'd to the ward; the child didn't see I 

was there. 

vr. 
Never since I was nurse, had I been so grieved and 

so vext ! 
Emmie had heard him. Softly she call'd from her 

cot to tlie next, 
"He says I shall never live thro' it, O Annie, what 

shaU I do?" 
Annie consider'd. "If I," said the wise little Annie, 

"was you, 
I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to help me, for, 

Emmie, you see. 
It's all in the picture there: "Little children should 

C(mie to me.' " 
(Meaning the print that you gave us, I find that it 

always can please 
Our children, the dear Lord Jesus with children 

about his knees.) 
"Yes, and I will," said Emmie, "but then if I call 

to the Lord, 
How should he know that it's me? such a lot of 

beds in the ward 1" 
That was a puzzle for Annie. Again she consider'd 

and said: 
" Emmie, you put ont your arms, and you leave 'em 

outside (ni the bed— 
The Lord has so viuch to see to! but, Emmie, you 

tell it him plain. 
It's the little girl with her arms lying out on the 

counterpane." 

TII. 

I had sat three nights by the child — I could not 

watch her for four — 
My brain had begun to reel— I felt I could do it no 

more. 
That was my sleeping-night, but I thought that it 

never would pass. 
There was a thunderclap ouce, and the clatter of 

hail on the glass, 



SIR JOHN OLUCASTLE, LORD COBHAM. 



3S7 



And there was a phantom cry that I heard as I tost 

about, 
The motherless bleat of a lamb m the storm and the 

darkness without; 
My sleep was broken besides with dreams of the 

dreadful knife 
And fears for our deliciite Emmie who scarce would 

escape with her life; 
Then in the gray of the morning it seem'd she stood 

by me and smiled, 
And the doctor vame at his hour, and we went to 

see to the child. 

YIII. 

He had brought his ghastly tools : we believed her 

asleep again — 
Her dear, long, lean, little arms lying out on the 

counterpane ; 
Say that His day is done ! Ah, why should we care 

what they say? 
The Lord of the children had heard her, and Emmie 

had past away. 



SIR JOHN OLDCASTLE, LORD COBHAM. 

(IN WALES.) 

Mt friend should meet me somewhere hereabout 
To take me to that hiding in the hills. 

I have broke their cage, no gilded one, I trow— 
I read no more the prisoner's mule wail 
Scribbled or carved upon the pitiless stone; 
I find hard rocks, hard life, hard cheer, or none, 
For I am emptier than a friar's brains ; 
But Gi)d is with me in this wilderness, 
These wet black p:isses and foam-churning chasms,— 
And God's free air, and hope of better things. 



I would I knew their speech ; not now to glean, 
Not now— I hope to do it— some scatter'd ears, 
Some ears for Christ in this wild field of Wales— 
But, bread, merely for bread. This tongue that 

wagg'd 
They said with such heretical arrogance 
Against the proud archbishop Arundel— 
So much God's cause was fluent in it— is here 
But as a Latin Bible to the crowd; 
" Bara '."—what use ? The Shepherd, when I speak, 
Vailing a sullen eyelid with his hard 
"Dim Saesneg" passes, wroth at things of old- 
No fault of mine. Had he God's word in Welsh 
He might be kindlier: happily come the day! 

Not least art thou, thou little Bethlehem 
In Jiidah, for in thee the Lord was born; 
Nor thou in Britain, little Lutterworth, 
Least, for in thee the word was born again. 

Heaven-sweet Evangel, ever-living word, 
Who whilome spakest to the South in Greek 
About the soft Mediterranean shores, 
And then in Latin to the Latin crowd, 
As good need was— thou hast come to talk our isle. 
Hereafter thou, fnlfiUing Pentecost, 
Must learn to use the tongues of all the world. 
Yet art thou thine own witness that thou bringest 
Not peace, a sword, a tire. 

What did he say, 
My frighted Wiclif-preacher whom I crost 
In flying hither? that one night a crowd 
Throng'd the waste fleld about the city gates: 
The king was on them suddenly with a host. 
Why there? they came to hear their pieacher. Then 
Some cried on Cobham, on the good Lord Cobhani; 
Ay, for they love me! but the king— nor voice 
Nor tinger raised against him— took and hang'd. 
Took, hang'd and burnt- how many— thirty-nine- 



Call'd it rebellion- hang'd, poor friends, as rebels 
And burn'd alive as heretics! for your Priest 
Labels— to take the king along with him— 
All heresy, treason: but to call men traitors 
May make meu traitors. 

Rose of Lancaster, 
Eed in thy birth, redder with household war, 
Now reddest with the blood of holy men, 
Redder to he, red rose of Lancaster— 
If somewhere in the North, as Rumor sang. 
Fluttering the hawks of this crown-lusting line- 
By firth and loch thy silver sister grow,* 
That were tny rose, there my allegiance due. 
Self-starved, they say— nay, murder'd, doubtless dead. 
So to this king I cleaved ; my friend was he. 
Once my fast friend; I would have given my life 
To help his own from scathe, a thousand lives 
To save his soul. He might have come to learn 
Our Wiclif s learning : but the worldly Priests, 
Who fear the king's hard common -sense should 

find 
What rotten piles uphold their masonwork, 
Urge him to foreign war. O had he will'd 
I might have stricken a lusty stroke for him, 
But he would not; far liever led my friend 
Back to the pure and universal church. 
But he would not: whether that heirless flaw 
In his throne's title make him feel so frail. 
He leans on Antichrist; or that his mind, 
S.) quick, so capable in soldiership, 
In matters of the faith, alas the while ! 
More worth than all the kingdoms of this world. 
Runs in the rut, a coward to the Priest. 

Burnt— good Sir Roger Acton, my dear friend! 
Burnt too, my faithful i)reaoher, Beverley! 
Lord, give thou power to thy two witnesses ! 
Lest the false faith make merry over them ! 
Two— nay, but thirty-nine have risen and stand, 
Dark with the smoke of human sacrifice. 
Before thy light, and cry continually— 
Cry— against whom? 

Him, who should bear the sword 
Of Justice— what ! the kingly, kindly boy ; 
Who took the world so easily heretofore. 
My boon companion, tavern-fellow— him 
Who gibed and japed— in many a merry tale 
That shook our sides— at Pardoners, Summoners, 
Friars, absolution-sellers, monkeries 
And nunneries, when the wild hour and the wine 
Had set the wits aflame. 

Harry of Monmouth, 
Or Amurath of the East? 

Better to sink 
Thy fleurs-de-lys in slime again, and fling 
Thy royalty back into the riotous fits 
Of wine and harlotry— thy shame, and mine, 
Thy comi-ade— than to persecute the Lord, 
And play the Saul that never will be Paul. 



Bnrnt, burnt! and while this mitred Arundel 
Dooms our unlicensed preacher to the flame. 
The mitre-sanction'd harlot draws his clerks 
Into the suburb- their hard celibacy. 
Sworn to be veriest ice of pureuess, molten 
Into adulterous living, or such crimes 
As holy Paul— a shame to speak of them — 
Among the heathen — 

Sanctuary granted 
To bandit, thief, assassin — yea to him 
Who hacks his mother's throat— denied to him, 
Who finds the Saviour in his mother tongue. 
The Gospel, the Priest's pearl, flung down to swine- 
The swine, lay-men, lay-women, who will come, 
(Jod willing, to outlearii the filthy friar. 
Ah rather. Lord, than that thy Gospel, meant 

* Richard II. 



388 



COLUMBUS. 



To course aud range thro' all the world, should be 
Tether'd to these dead pillars of the Church- 
Rather than so, if thou wilt have it so, 
Burst vein, snap siuew, aud crack heart, aud life 
Pass iu the fire of Babylon ! but how long, 
O Lord, how long ! 

My friend should meet me here. 
Here is the copse, the fountain and— a Cross ! 
To thee, dead wood, I bow uot head nor knees. 
Rather to thee, green boscage, work of God, 
Black holly, aud white-flower'd wayfaring-tree 1 
Rather to thee, thou living water, drawn 
By this good Wiclif mountain down from heaven, 
And speaking clearly in thy native tongue- 
No Latin- He that thirsteth, come aud drink! 

Eh ! how I anger'd Arundel asking me 
To worship Holy Cross! I spread mine arms. 
God's work, I said, a cross of flesh and blood. 
And holier. That was heresy. (My good friend 
By this time should be with me.) "Images?" 
"Bury them as God's truer images 
Are daily buried." "Heresy.— Penance?" "Fast, 
Hairshirt aud scourge— nay, let a man repent, 
Do peuauce iu his heart, God hears him." " Her- 
esy— 
Not shriven, not saved?" "What profits au ill 

Priest 
Between me and my God? I would not spurn 
Good counsel of good friends, but shrive myself 
No, uot to an Apostle." " Heresy." 
(My friend is long iu coming.) "Pilgrimages?" 
"Drink, bagpipes, revelling, devil's-dances, vice. 
The poor man's money gone to fat the friar. 
Who reads of begging saiuts in Scripture ?"— " Her- 
esy "— 
(Hath he been here— not found me— gone again? 
Have I mislearut our place of meeting?) "Bread- 
Bread left after the blessing?" how they stared. 
That was their main test-question— glared at me! 
"He veil'd Himself in flesh, and now He veils 
His flesh iu bread, body and bread together." 
Then rose the howl of all the cassock'd wolves, 
"No bread, no bread. God's body!" Archbishop, 

Bishop, 
Priors, Canons, Friars, bellringers. Parish-clerks— 
"No bread, no bread !"—" Authority of the Church, 
Power of the keys !"— Then I, God help me, I 
So mock'd, so spurn'd, so baited two whole days — 
I lost myself and fell from evenness, 
Aud rail'd at all the Popes, that ever since 
Sylvester shed the venom of world-wealth 
Into the church, had only prov'n themselves 
Poisoners, murderers. Well— God pardou all— 
Me, them, aud all the world— yea, that proud Priest, 
That rnock-meek mouth of utter Antichrist, 
That traitor to King Richard and the truth. 
Who rose and doom'd me to the fire. 

Ameu ! 
Nay, I can burn, so that the Lord of life 
Be by me in my death. 

Those three ! the fourth 
Was like the sou of God. Not burnt were they. 
On the-M the smell of burning had not past. 
That was a miracle to convert the king. 
These Pharisees, this Caiaphas-Arundel 
What miracle could turn? He here again, 
He thwarting their traditions of Himself, 
He would be found a heretic to Himself, 
Aud doom'd to burn alive. 

So, caught, I burn. 
Burn ? heathen men have borne as much as this, 
For freedom, or the sake of those they loved. 
Or some less cause, some cause far less than mine 
For every other cause is less than mine. 
The moth will singe her wings, aud singed return, 
Her h)ve of liij,ht quenching her fear of pain — 
How now, my soul, we do uot heed the fire? 



Faint-hearted? tut I— faint-stomach'd ! faint as I am, 
God willing, I will burn for Him. 

Who comes? 
A thousand marks are set upon my head. 
Friend ? — foe perhaps — a tussle for it then ! 
Nay, but my friend. Thou art so well di'^guised, 
1 knew thee not. Hast thou brought bread with 

thee ? 
I have not broken bread for fifty hours. 
None ? I am damn'd already by the Priest 
For holding there was bread where bread was 

uone — 
No bread. My friends await me yonder? Yes. 
Lead ou then. Up the mountain? Is it ftir? 
Not far. Climb first and reach me down thy hand. 
I am not like to die for lack of bread, 
For I must live to testify by fire.* 



COLUMBUS. 

Chains, my good lord : in your raised brows I read 
Some wonder at our chamber ornaments. 
We brought this iron from our isles of gold. 

Does the king know you deign to visit him 
Whom once he rose from off his throne to greet 
Before his people, like his brother king? 
I saw your face that morning iu the crowd. 

At Barcelona— tho' you were not then 
So bearded. Yes. The city deck'd herself 
To meet me, roar'd my name; the king, the queen 
Bad me be seated, speak, aud tell them all 
The story of my voyage, and while I spoke 
The crowd's roar fell as at the " Peace, be still !" 
And when I ceased to speak, the king, the queen, 
Sank from their thrones, and melted into tears, 
Aud knelt, and lifted hand and heart and voice 
In praise to God who led me thro' the waste. 
And then the great "Laudamus" rose to heaven. 

Chains for the Admiral of the Ocean ! chains 
For him who gave a new heaven, a new earth. 
As holy John had prophesied of me. 
Gave glory and more emi)ire to the kings 
Of Spain than all their battles ! chains for him 
Who push'd his prows into the setting sun. 
And made West East, and sail'd the Dragon's mouth. 
And came upon the Mountain of the World, 
And saw the rivers roll from Paradise 1 

Chains I we are Admirals of the Ocean, we, 
We and our sons forever. Ferdinand 
Hath sign'd it and our Holy Catholic queen- 
Of the Ocean— of the Indies— Admirals we— 
Our title, which we never mean to yield, 
Our guerdon not alone for what we did, • 
But oar amends for all we might have done— 
The vast occasion of our stronger life — 
Eighteen long years of waste, seven iu your Spain, 
Lost, showing courts and kings a truth the bsibe 
Will suck iu with his milk hereafter— earth 
A sphere. 

Were ymi at Salamanca? No. 
We fronted there the learning of all Spain, 
All their cosmogonies, their astronomies: 
Guess-work they guess'd it, but the golden gujss 
Is morniug-star to the full round of truth. 
No guess-work ! 1 was certain of my goal ; 
Some thought it heresy, but that would not hold. 
King David call'd the heavens a hide, a tent 
Spread over earth, and so this earth was flat ; 
Some cited old Lactantius: cmild it be 
That trees grew downward, rain fell upward, men 

» He waa burnt on Christmas-day, 1417. 



COLUMBUS. 



JS'J 



VValk'd like the fly on ceilings? and besides, 

The great Aiignstine wrote that none could breathe 

Within the iioue of heat; so might there be 

Two Adams, two mankinds, and that was clean 

Against God's word: thus was I beaten back, 

And chiefly to my sorrow by the Church, 

And thought to turn my face from Spain, appeal 

Once more to Prance or England ; but our Queen 

Recall'd me, for at last their Highnesses 

Were half-assured this earth might be a sphere. 

All glory to the all-blessed Trinity, 
All glory to the mother of our Lord, 
And Holy Church, from whom I never swerved 
Not even by one hair's-breadth of heresy, 
I have accomplish'd what I came to do. 

Not yet— not all— last night a dream— I sail'd 
On my first voyage, harass'd by the frights 
Of my first crew, their curses and their groans. 
The great flame-banner borne by Tenerifl'e, 
The compass, like an old friend false at last 
In our most need, appall'd them, and the wind 
Still westward, and the weedy seas— at length 
The landbird, and the branch with berries on it. 
The carveii staff— and last the light, the light 
On Guanahani ! but I changed llio name; 
San Salvador I call'd it; and the light 
Grew as I gazed, and brought out a broad sky 
Of dawning over— not those alien palms. 
The marvel of that fair new nature— not 
That Indian isle, l)ut our most ancient East, 
Moriah with Jerusalem ; and I saw 
The glory of the Lord flash up, and beat 
Thro' all the homely town from jasper, sapphire, 
Chalcedony, emerald, sardonyx, sardius, 
Chrysolite, beryl, topaz, chrysoprase, 
Jacynth, and amethyst— and those twelve gates. 
Pearl— aud I woke, and thought— death— I shall die— 
I am written in the Lamb's own Book of Life 
To walk within the glory of the Lord 
Sunless and moonless, utter light — but no ! 
The Lord had sent this bright, strange dream to me 
To mind me of the secret vow I made 
When Spain was waging war against the Moor — 
I strove myself with Spain against the Moor. 
There came two voices from the Sepulchre, 
Two friars crying that if Spain should oust 
The Moslem from her limit, he, the fierce 
Soldan of Egypt, would break down and raze 
The blessed tomb of Christ ; whereon I vow'd 
That, if our Princes harkeu'd to my prayer. 
Whatever wealth I brought from that new world 
Should, in this old, be consecrate to lead 
A new crusade against the Saracen, 
And free the Holy Sepulchre from thrall. 

Gold? I had brought your Princes gold enough 
If left alone ! Being but a Geuovese, 
I am handled worse than had I been a Moor, 
Aud breach'd the belting wall of Cambalu, 
And given the Great Khan's palaces to the Moor, 
Or clutch'd the sacred crown of Prester John, 
And cast it to the Moor: but had I brought 
From Solom(m's now-recover'd Ophir all 
The gold that Solomon's navies carried home. 
Would that have gilded met Blue blood of Spain, 
Tho' quartering your own royal arms of Spain, 
I have not: blue blood and black blood of Spain, 
The noble and the convict of Castile, 
Howl'd me from Hispaniola; for you know 
The flies at home, that ever swarm about 
And cloud the highest heads, aud murmur down 
Truth in the distance — these outbuzz'd me so 
That even our prudent Icing, our righteous queen— 
I pray'd them being so calumniated, 
They would coraraission one of weight and worth 
To judge between my slander'd self and me— 



Fouseca my main enemy at their court, 

They send me out Ids tool, Bovadilla, one 

As ignorant and impolitic as a beast — 

Blockish irreverence, brainless greed— who sack'd 

My dwelling, seized upon my papers, loosed 

My captives, feed the rebels of the crown. 

Sold the crown-farms for all but nothing, gave 

All but free leave for all to work the mines, 

Drove me and my good brothers liorae in chains, 

Aud gathering ruthless gold — a single piece 

Weigh'd nigh four lhou:<and Castillanos — so 

They tell me — wcigh'd him down into the abysm- 

The hurricane of the latitude ou him fell. 

The seas of our discovering over-roll 

Him and his gold ; the frailer caravel. 

With what was mine, came happily to the shore. 

There was a glimmering of God's hand. 

And God 
Hath more than glimmer'd on me. O my lord, 
I swear to you I heard his voice between 
The thunders in the black Veragua nights, 
"O soul of little faith, slow to believe 1 
Have I not been about thee from thy birth? 
Given thee the keys of the great Ocean-sea? 
Set thee in light till time shall be no more? 
Is it I who have deceived thee or the world? 
Endure ! thou hast done so well for men, that meu 
Cry out against thee: was it otherwise 
With mine own Sou?" 

And more than once in days 
Of donbt and cloud and storm, when drowning hope 
Sank all but out of sight, I heard his voice, 
"Be not cast down. I lead thee by the hand. 
Fear not." Aud I shall hear his voice again— 
I know that he has led me all my life, 
I am not yet too old to work his will— 
His voice again. 

Still for all that, my lord, 
I lying here bedridden and alone, 
Cast off, put by, scouted by court and king— 
The first discoverer starves — his followers, all 
Flower into fortune— our world's way — aud I, 
Without a roof that I can call mine own. 
With scarce a coin to buy a meal withal, 
And seeing what a door for scoundrel scum 
I open'd to the VVest, thro' which the lust, 
Villany, violence, avarice, of your Spain 
Pour'd in on all those happy naked isles — 
Their kiudly native princes slain or slaved. 
Their wives and children Spanish concubines, 
Their innocent hospitalities quench'd in blood, 
Some dead of hunger, some lieneaih the scourge, 
Some over-labor'd, some by their own hands, — 
Yea, the dear mothers, crazing Nature, kill 
Their babies at the breast for hate of Spain — 
Ah God, the harmless people whom we found 
In Hisjianiola's island-Paradise! 
Who took us for the very Gods from Heaven, 
And we have sent them very fiends from Hell; 
And I myself, myself not blameless, I 
Could sometimes wish I had never led the way. 

Only the ghost of our great Catholic Queen 
Smiles on me, saying, "Be thou comforted I 
This creedless people will be brought to Christ 
Aud own the holy governance of Rome." 

But who could dream that we, who bore the Croes 
Thither, were excommunicated there, 
For curbijig crimes that scandalized the Cross, 
By him, the Catalonian Minorite, 
Rome's Vicar in our Indies? who believe 
These hard memorials of our truth to Spain 
Clung closer to us for a longer term 
Than any friend of ours at Court? and yet 
Pardou— too harsh, nnjust. I am rack'd with pains. 

Ycm see that I have hung them by my bed, 
And I will have them buried iu my grave. 



390 



THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. 



Sir, in that flight of ages which are God's 
Owu voice to justify the dead— perchance 
Spain once the most chivahic race on earth, 
Spain then tlie mightiest, wealthiest realm on earth, 
So made l)y me, may seek to unbiiry me, 
To lay me in some shrine of this old Spain, 
Or in that vaster Spain I leave to Spaii!. 
Then some one standing by my grave will say, 
"Behold the bones of Christopher Colon" — 
"Ay, but the chains, what do they mean — the 

chains?" 
1 sorrow for that kindly child of Spain 
Who then will have to answer, "These same chains 
Bonnd these same bones back thro' the Atlantic 

sea, 
Which he unchaiu'd for all the world to come." 

O Queen of Heaven who seest the souls iu Hell 
And purgatory, I suffer all as much 
As they do — for the moment. Stay, my sou 
Is here anon : my sou will speak for me 
Ablier than I can in these spasms that grind 
Bone against bone. You will not. One last word. 

Yon move about the Court, I pray you tell 
King Ferdinand who plays with me, that one. 
Whose life has been no play with him and his 
Hidalgos— shipwrecks, famines, fevers, fights. 
Mutinies, treacheries — wiuk'd at, and condoned — 
That I am loyal to hini till the death, 
And ready— tho' our Holy Catholic Queen, 
Who faiu had pledged her jewels ou my first voy- 
age, 
Whose hope was mine to spread the Catholic faith, 
Who wei)t with me when I return'd in chains, 
Who sits beside the blessed Virgin now, 
To whom I send my prayer by night and day — 
She is gone— but you will tell the King, that I, 
Eack'd as I am with gout, and wreuch'd with pains 
Gain'd in the service of His Highness, yet 
Am ready to sail forth on one last voyage. 
And readier, if the King would hear, to lead 
One last crusade against the Saracen, 
And save the Holy Sepulchre from thrall. 

Going? I am old and slighted: you have dared 
Somewhat perhaps in coming? my poor thanks! 
1 am but au alien and a Genovese. 



THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. 

(FOUNDED ON AN IRISH LEGEND. A.D. TOO.) 

I. 
I WAS the chief of the race — he had stricken my fa- 
ther dead — 
But I gather'd my fellows together, I swore I would 

strike off his head. 
Each of them lodk'd like a king, and was noble in 

birth as in worth, 
And each of them boasted he sprang from the oldest 

race upon earth. 
Each was as brave iu the fight as the bravest hero 

of song. 
And each of them liefer had died than have done 

one another a wrong. 
He lived on an isle in the ocean — we sail'd on a 

Friday morn — 
He that had slain my father the day before I was 

born. 

TI. 

And we came to the isle in the ocean, and there on 

the shore was he. 
But a sudden blast blew us out and away thro' a 

boundless sea. 



And we came to the Silent Isle that we never had 

touch'd at before. 
Where a silent ocean always broke on a silent shore. 
And the brooks glitter'd on in the light without 

sound, and the long waterfalls 
Pour'd in a thnuderless plunge to the base of the 

mountain walls. 
And the poplar and cypress unshaken by storm 

flouiish'd up beyond sight. 
And the pine shot aloft from the crag to an unbe- 
lievable height, 
And high in the heaven above it there flicker'd a 

songless lark, 
And the cock couldn't crow, and the bull couldn't 

low, and the dog couldn't bark. 
And round it we went, and thro' it, but never a 

murmur, a breathe 
It was all of it fair as life, it was all of it quiet as death. 
And we hated the beautiful Isle, for whenever we 

strove to speak 
Our voices were thinner and fainter than any flitter- 

mouse-shrick ; 
And the men that were mighty of tongue and could 

raise such a battle-cry 
That a hundred who heard it would rush ou a 

thousand lances and die— 
O they to be dumb'd by the charm !^so fluster'd 

with anger were they 
They almost fell ou each other; but after we sail'd 

away. 

IV. 

And we came to the Isle of Shouting, we lauded, a 

score of wild birds 
Cried from the topmost summit with human voices 

and words ; 
Once in au hour they cried, and whenever their 

voices peal'd 
The steer fell down at the plow and the harvest 

died from the field, 
And the men drojit dead in the vallej's and half of 

the cattle went lame. 
And the roof sank in on the hearth, and the dwell- 
ing broke into fiame ; 
And the shouting of these wild birds ran into the 

hearts of my crew, 
Till they sliouted along with the shouting and seized 

one another and slew ; 
But I drew them the one from the other; I saw that 

we could not stay. 
And we left the dead to the birds and we sail'd with 

our wounded away. 

V. 

And we came to the Isle of Flowers : their breath 

met us out on the seas, 
For the Spring and the middle Summer sat each on 

the lap of the breeze ; 
And the red passion-flower to the clifis, and the dark 

blue clematis, clung, 
And starr'd with a myriad blossom the long con- 
volvulus hung ; 
And the topmost spire of the mountain was lilies iu 

in lieu of snow. 
And the lilies like glaciers winded down, running 

out below 
Thro' the Are of the tulip and poppy, the blaze of 

gorse, and the blush 
Of millions of roses that sprang without leaf or a 

thorn from the bush ; 
And the whole isle-side flashing down from the peak 

without ever a tree 
Swept like a torrent of gems from the sky to the 

blue of the sea ; 
And we roll'd upon iMpes of crocus and vaunted our 

kiih and our Uiu, 
And we wallow'd in beds of lilies, and chanted the 

triumph of Finn, 



THE VOYAGE OF MAELDUNE. 



:]!)! 



Till each like a golden image was polleu'd from head 

to feet, 
Ami each was as dry as a cricket, with thirst in the 

middle-day heat. 
Blossom and blossom, and pi-omise of blossom, but 

iievef a fruit ! 
And we hated the Flowering Isle, as we hated the 

isle that was mute. 
And we tore up the Howers by the million and flung 

them in bight and bay, 
Aud we left but a naked rock, and in anger we sail'd 

away. 

VI. 

Aud we came to the Isle of Fruits: all round from 

the cliffs and the capes, 
Purple or amber, dangled a hundred fathom of 

grapes, 
And the warm melon lay like a little sun ou the 

tawny sand, 
And the flg ran up from the beach and rioted over 

the land, 
And the mountain arose like a jewell'd throne thro' 

the fragrant air, 
Glowing with all-color'd plums and with golden 

masses of pear, 
Aud tlie crimson and scarlet of berries that flamed 

upon bine and vine. 
But in every berry aud fruit was the poisonous 

pleasure of wine; 
Aud the peak of the mountain was apples, the hugest 

that ever were seen. 
And they prest, as they grew, on each other, with 

hardly a leaflet between. 
And all of them redder than rosiest health or than 

utterest shame, 
Aud setting, when Eveu descended, the vei'y sunset 

aflame ; 
And we stay'd three days, and we gorged and we 

madden'd, till every one drew 
His sword on his fellow to slay him, and ever they 

struck and they slew ; 
Aud myself, I had eaten but sparely, and fonght till 

I sunder'd the fray. 
Then I bad them remember my father's death, aud 

we sail'd away. 

VII. 

Aud we came to the Isle of Fire;, we were lured by 

the light from afar. 
For the peak sent up one league of fiie to the North- 
ern Star ; 
Lured by the glare aud the blare, but scarcely could 

stand upright. 
For the whole isle shudder'd and shook like a man 

in a mortal affright ; 
We were giddy besides with the fruits we had 

gorged, and so crazed that at last 
There were some leap'd into the fire ; and away we 

sail'd, and we past 
Over that undersea isle, where the water is clearer 

than air ; 
Down we look'd: what a garden! O bliss, what a 

Paradise there ! 
Towers of a happier time, low down in a rainbow 

deep 
Silent palaces, quiet fields of eternal sleep ! 
Aud three of the gentlest and best of my people, 

whate'er I could saj', 
Plunged head down in the sea, and the Paradise 

trembled away. 

Vlll. 

Aud we came to the Bounteous Isle, where the 

heavens lean low on the land. 
And ever at dawn from the cloud glitter'd o'er us a 

sunbiight hand, 
Theu it open'd aud di-opt at the side of each man, 

as he rose from his rest. 
Bread enough for his need till the laborless day 

dipt under the West; 



Aud we wander'd about it aud thro' it. O never 

was time so good ! 
And we sang of the triumphs of Finn, aud the boast 

of our ancient blood. 
And we gazed at the wandering wave as we sat by 

the gurgle of springs. 
And we chanted the songs of the Bards and the 

glories of fairy kings; 
But at lengih we began to be weary, to sigh, and to 

stretch aud yawn, 
Till we hated the Bounteous Isle and the sunbright 

hand of the dawn. 
For there was not an enemy near, but the whole 

green Isle was our own, 
Aud we took to playing at ball, and we took to 

throwing the stone. 
And we took to playing at battle, but that was a 

perilous play, 
For the passion of battle was iu us, we slew aud 

we sail'd away. 



Aud we came to the Isle of Witches and heard their 
musical cry — 

"Come to us, O come, come" iu the stormy red of 
a sky 

Dashing the fires and the shadows of dawn on the 
beautiful shapes, 

For a wild witch naked as heaven stood on each 
of the loftiest capes. 

And a hundred ranged on the rock like white sea- 
birds in a row. 

And a hundred gamboli'd and pranced on the 
wrecks in the saud below. 

And a hundred splash'd from tlie ledges, and bosom'd 
the burst of the spray. 

But I knew we should fall ou each other, and has- 
tily sail'd away. 



And we came in au evil time to the Isle of the 

Double Towers: 
One was of smooth -cut stone, one carved all over 

with flowers ; 
But an earthquake always moved iu the hollows 

under the dells, 
Aud they shock'd on each other and butted each 

other with clashing of bells, 
Aud the daws flew out of the Towers and jangled 

aud wrangled iu vain. 
And the clash and boom of the bells rang into the 

heart aud the brain. 
Till the passion of battle was on us, and all took 

sides with the Towers, 
There were some for the clean-cut stone, there M'ere 

more for the carven flowers. 
And the wrathful thunder of God peal'd over us all 

the day. 
For the one half slew the other, aud after we sail'd 

away. 



And we came to the Isle of a Saint who had sail'a 
with St. Brendan of yore, 

He had lived ever since on the Isle, and his winters 
were fifteen score, 

Aud his voice was low as from other worlds, aud 
his eyes were sweet. 

And his white hair sank to his heels and his white 
beard fell to his feet. 

And he spake to me, "O Maelduue, let be this pur- 
pose of thine ! 

Remember the words of the Lord when he told us 
'V'engeance is mine!' 

His fathers have slain thy fathers in war or in sin- 
gle strife, 

Thy I'iilhcrs have slain his fathers, each taken a lifie 
for a life. 



392 



TO VIRGIL.— BxVTTLE OF BRUNANBUKH. 



Tby father had slaiu his father, how long shall the 

murder last? 
Go back to the Isle of Finu and suft'er the Past to 

be Past." 
And we kiss'd the friuge of his beard, and we pray'd 

as we heard him pray. 
And the Holy man he assoil'd us, and sadly we 

sail'd away. 

XII. 

And we came to the Isle we were blown from, and 

there on the shore was he. 
The man that had slain my father. I saw hira and 

let him be. 
O weary was I of the travel, the trouble, the strife 

and the sin. 
When I landed again, with a tithe of my men, on 

the Isle of Finn. 



TO VIKGIL. 

WKITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF TUB MANTUANS FOB 
TUB NINETEEISTU CENTI5NAKY OF VIUQIL'S UEATU. 



Roman Viugii., thou that singest 

Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire, 

Ilion falling, Rome arising, 

wars, ai.d Ulial faith, and Dido's pyre ; 



Landscape-lover, lord of language 

more than he that sang the Works and Days, 
All the chosen coin of fancy 

flashing out from many a golden phrase; 



Thou that singest wheat and woodland, 

tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and herd ; 

All the charm of all the Muses 

often flowering in a lonely word ; 



Poet of the happy Tityrus 

piping underneath his beechen bowers; 
Poet of the poet-satyr [flowers ; 

whom the laughing shepherd bound with 



Chanter of the Pollio, glorying 

iu the blissful years again to be, 

Summers of the snakeless meadow, 

unlaborious earth and oarless sea; 



Thou that seest Universal 

Nature moved by Universal Mind; 
Thou majestic in thy sadness 

at the doubtful doom of human kind ; 



Light among the vanish'd ages ; 

star that gildest yet this phantom shore; 
Golden branch amid the shadows, 

kings and realms that pass to rise uo more 



Now thy Forum roars no longer, 

fallen every inirple Ciesar's dome- 

Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhytlim 

souud for ever (jf Imperial Rome- 



Now the Rome of slaves hath perish'd, 

and the Rome of freemen holds her place, 

I, from out the Northern Island 

sunder'd once from all the human race. 



I salute thee, Mantovano, 

I that loved thee since my day began, 
Wielder of the stateliest measure 

ever moulded by the lips of man. 



TRANSLATIONS, Etc, 



BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH, 

Constantinus, King of the Scots, after having sworn allegiance to 
Atbelstan, allied himself with the Danes of Ireland under Anlaf, and 
invading England, was defeated by Athelstnn and his brother Ed- 
mund with great slaughter at Brunauburh in the year 937. 



*ATni:i,8TAN King, 
Lord among Earls, 
Bracelet-bestower, and 
Baron of Barons, 
He with his brother, 
Edmund Atheling, 
Gaining a lifelong 
Glory in battle. 
Slew with the sword-edge 
There by Brunanburh, 
Brake the shield-wall, 
Ilew'd the lindenwood.t 
Hack'd the battleshield. 
Sons of Edward with hammei'd brands. 



Theirs was a greatness 
Got from their Grandsires— 
Theirs that so often in 
Strife with their enemies 
Struck for their hoards and their hearths and thei»- 
homes. 

III. 

Bow'd the spoiler, 

Bent the Scotsman, 

Fell the shipciews 

Doom'd to the Death. 
All the field with blood of the fighters 

Flow'd, from when first the great 

Sun-star of morningtide. 

Lamp of the Lord God 

Lord everlasting, 
Glode over earth till the glorious creature 

Sunk to his setting. 



There lay many a man 
Marr'd by the javelin. 
Men of the Northland 
Shot over shield. 
There was the Scotsman 
Weary of war. 



AVe the West-Saxons, 
Long as the daylight 
Lasted, iu companies 
Troubled the track of the host that we hated, 
Grimly with swords that were sharp from the grind- 
stone, 
Fiercely we hack'd at the flyers before us. 



* I have more or less availed myself of my son's prose translation 
of this poem in the Cmtemporari/ Review (November, 1876). 
t Shields of lindenwood. 



TO THE PRINCESS iTiEDERICA.— TO DANTE. 



303 



Mighty the Mercian, 
H:ird was his limid-play, 
Sparing uot any of 
Those that with Aniaf, 
Warriors over the 
M'elteriug waters 
Borne in the bark's-bosom, 
Drew to this island, 
Doom'd to the death. 



Five young kings pnt asleep by the sword-stroke, 
Seven strong Earls of the army of Aulaf 
Fell on the war-tield, numberless uunibers, 
Sliipmen and Scotsmen. 



Then the Norse leader, 

Dire was his need of it, 

Few were his following, 

Fled to his warship: 
Fleeted his vessel to sea with the king iu it. 
Saving his life ou the fallow flood. 



Also the crafty one, 

Constautinus, 

Crept to his North again, 

Hoar-headed hero ! 



Slender reason had 

He to be proud of 

The welcome of war-knives — 

He that was reft of his 

Folk and his friends that had 

Fallen in conflict. 

Leaving his son too 

Lost in the carnage. 

Mangled to morsels, 

A youngster iu war ! 



Slender reason had 

He to be glad of 

The clash of the war-glaive — 

Traitor and trickster 

Aud spurner of treaties — 

He nor had Anlaf 

With armies so broken 

A reason for bragging 

That they had the better 

Iu perils of battle 

On places of slaughter — 

The struggle of standards, 

The rush of the javelins, 

The crash of the charges,* 

The wielding of weapons — 

The play that they playVl with 

The children of Edward. 



Then with their nail'd prows 
Parted the Norsemen, a 

Blood-redden 'd relic of 

Javelins over 

The jarring breaker, the deepsea billow. 

Shaping their way toward Dyflent agaiu, 

Shiimed iu their souls. 



* Lit. " the gathering of men." 
t Dublin. 



Also the brethren. 

King aud Atheling, 
Each in his glory. 
Went to his own in his own West-Saxouland, 
Glad of the war. 



Many a carcase they left to be carrion. 
Many a livid one, many a sallow-skin— 
Left for the white-tail'd eagle to tear it, and 
Left for the horny-nibb'd raven to rend it, and 
Gave to the garbaging war-hawk to gorge it, aud 
That gray beast, the wolf of the weald. 



Never had huger 
Slaughter of heroes 
Slain by the sword-edge— 
Such as old writers 
Have writ of iu histories — 
Hapt iu this isle, since 
Up from the Bast hither 
Saxon and Angle from 
Over the broad billow 
Broke into Britain with 
Haughty war-workers who 
Harried the Welshman, wheu 
Earls that were lured by the 
Hunger of glory gat 
Hold of the laud. 



TO THE PRINCESS FREDERICA ON 
HER MARRIAGE. 

O You that were eyes and light to the king till he 
past away 
From the darkness of life- 
He saw uot his daughter— he blest her: the blind 
King sees you to-day, 
He blesses the wife. 



SIR JOHN FRANKLIN. 

ON TUE CENOTAPH IN WEST.MlNSTEn ABBEY. 

Not here ! the white North has thy bones ; and thou, 

Heroic sailor-sonl, 
Art passing ou thine happier voyage uow 

Toward no earthly pole. 



TO DANTE. 



WRITTEN AT REQUEST OF THE FLORENTINES. 

King, that hast reign'd six hundred years, 

grown 
In power, and ever growest, since thine own 
Fair Florence honoring thy nativity, 
Thy Florence now the crown of Italy, 
Hath sought the tribute of a verse from me, 
I, wearing but the garland of a day. 
Cast at thy feel one flower that fades away. 



and 



394 



ACHILLES OVER THE TRENCH.— TO VIC I'OR HUGO. 



ACHILLES OVER THE TRENCH. 

Iliad, xviii., i;02. 

So saying, light-foot Iris pass'd away. 
Then rose Achilles clear to Zeiis; and ronncl 
The warrior's puissaut shoulders Pallas flung 
Her friug^d asgis, and around his head 
The glorious goddess wreathed a golden cloud, 
And from it lighted an all-shining flame. 
As when a smoke from a city goes to heaven 
Far off from out an inland girt by foes, 
All day the men contend in grievous war 
From their own city, and with set of sun 
Their fires flame thickly, and aloft the glare 
Flies streaming, if perchance the neighbors round 
May see, and sail to help them in the war: 
So from his head the splendor went to heaven. 
From wall to dyke he stept, he stood, nor join'd 
The Achfeiins -honoring his wise mother's word- 
There standing, shouted; Pallas far away 
Call'd ; and a boundless panic shook the foe. 
For like the clear voice when a trumpet shrills, 
Blown by tlie tierce beleaguerers of a town, 
So rang the clear voice of .^akides; 
And when the brazen cry of yEMki<16.'! 
Was heard among the Trojans, all their henrts 
Were troubled, and the full-maned horses wliirl'd 
The chariots backward, knowing griefs at hand ; 
And sheer-aslonuded were the charioteers 
To see the dread, uuweariable fire 
That always o'er the great Peleiou's hejid 
Burnt, for the l)rii:ht-eyed goddess m.ide i! bnin. 
Thrice from the dyke he sent his mighty .•<h(int, 
Thrice backward reel'd the Trojans and allica: 
And there and then twelve of their noblest died 
Among their spears and chariots. 



PREFATORY SONNET TO THE "NINE- 
TEENTH CENTURY." 

Those that of late had fleeted far and fast 
To touch nil shores, now leaving to the skill 
Of others their old craft seaworthy still, 
Hiive charter'd this; where, mindful of the past, 
Our true co-mates regather round the mast, 



Of diverse tongue, but with a common will 

Here, in this roaring moon of dafl'odil 

And crocus, to put forth and brave the blast; 

For some, descending from the sacred peak 

Of hoar high-templed Faith, have leagued again 

Their lot with ours to rove the world about ; 

And some are wilder comrades, sworn to seek 

If any golden harbor be for men 

In seas of Death and sunless gulfs of Doubt. 



MONTENEGRO. 

TiiKY rose to where their sovran eagle sails. 
They kept their faith, their fieedorn, on the height, 
Chaste, frugal, savage, arm'd by day and night 

Auaiust the Turk; whose inroad nowhere scales 

Tlieir headlong passes, but his footstep fails. 
And red with blood the Crescent reels from fi>;ht 
Before their dauntless hundreds, iu prone flight 

By iliousands down the crags and thro' the vale.". 

O smallest among peoples! rough rock-throne 
Of Freedom ! warriors beating back the swarm 
Of Turkish Islam for five hundred years, 

Great Tsernagora ! never since thine own 
Black ridges drew the cloud and brake the storm 
Has breathed a race of mightier mountaineers. 



TO VICrOR HUGO. 

Victor in Drama! Victor in Romance! 

Cloud weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears! 

French of the French and lord of human tears ! 
Cliild lover, bard, whose fame-lit laurels glance. 
Darkening the wreaths of all that would advance 

Beyond our strait their claim to be thy peers ! 

Weird Titan, by thy wintry weight of years 
As yet unbroken ! Stormy voice of France, 
Who dost not love our England, so they s:iy; 

I know not! England, France, all men to be 
Will make one people eie man's race be run : 
And I, desiring that diviner day, 

Yield thee fnll thanks for thy full coui-tesy 
To younger England in the boy, my sou. 



THE CUP. 



39.-. 



THE CUP 



A TRAGEDY. 



DRAMATIS PERSOIsT^. 



Galatians. 



Romans. 



Synduix, ail es-Tetrarch. 
SiNNATUs, a Tetrarch. 
Ph(ei>k. 

Camma, wife of Siuiuitiis, afierwards Priest- 
ess ill the Temple of Anemis. 
Atteudaut. Boy. Maid. 



Antonius, a Roman Gcnei'aL 

PuiiLIUB. 

Nolileiiiiin. 
]^les^ouger. 



ACT I. 



SCENE T.— DISTANT VIEW OF A CITY 
OF GALATIA.— Afternoon. 

As the curtain rises, Priestesses are heard singing in the 
Te <vple. Boy discovered on a pathivay among rockii, 
picking grapes. A party ofRomati Soldiers, guard- 
ing a prisoner in cliaias, come down the pathway 
and exeunt. 

Enter Svnokix (JLooking round). Singing ceases. 
Synorix. Pine, beech, and plane, oak, walnut, apri- 
cot, 
Vine, cypress, poplar, myrtle, bowering-in 
The city wliere she dwells. She past me here 
Three years ago when I was flying from 
My tetrarchy to Rome. I almost tonch'd her — 
A maiden slowly moving on to music 
Among her maidens to tliis Temple — O Gods ! 
She is my fate — else wherefore has my fate 
Brought me again to her own city? — married 
Since — married Siuuatiis, the Tetrarcli here — 
But if he be conspirator, Rome will chain. 
Or slay him. I may trust to gain her then 
When I shall have my tetrarchy restored 
By Rome, our mistress, grateful that I show'd her 
The weakness and the dissonance of our clans. 
And how to crnsh them easily. Wretched race 1 
And once I wisli'd to scourge them to the bones. 
But in this narrow breathing-time of life 
Is vengeance for its own sake worth the while, 
If once our ends are gain'd ? and now this cup — 
I never felt such passion for a woman. 

{.Brings out a cup and scroll from under his cloak. 
What have I written to her? 

[Reading the scroll. 

*' To the admired Camma, wife of Sinnatus, the Tetrarch, one who 
years npo, himself an adorer of our ^reat poddess, Artemis, beheld you 
afar otf worshipping in her Temple, and loved you for it, sends you 
this cup, rescued from the burning of one of her shrines in a city thro' 
which he past with the Roman army . it is the cup we use in our mar- 
riages. Receive it from one who cannot at present write himself other 
than 

*' A Galati**! serving by force in the Roman Legion." 

[Turns and looks tip to Boy. 
Boy, dost thou know the house of Sinnatus ? 

Boy. These grapes are for the house of Sinnatus — 
Close to the Temple. 

Synorix. Yonder? 

Boy. Yes. 

Sytwrix {aside). That I 



With all my range of women should yet shun 
To meet her face to face at once ! My boy, 

[Boy comes down rocks to him. 
Take thou this letter and this cup to Camma, 
The wife of Sinnatus. 

Boy. Going or gone to-day 

To liunt with Sinnatus. 

Synorix. That matters not. 

Take thou this cup and leave it at her doors. 

[Gives the cup and tcroll to the Boy. 
Boy. I will, my lord. 

[Takes his basket of grapes, and exit- 
Enter Antonids. 

Antonius {meeting the Boy as he goes orit). Why, 
whither runs the boy ? 
Is that the cup you rescued from the fire ? 

Synorix. I send it to the wife of Sinnatus, 
One half besotted in religious rites. 
You come here with your soldiers to enforce 
The long-withholden tribute: you suspect 
This Sinnatus of playing patriotism, 
Wiiich in your sense is treason. You have yet 
No proof against him: now this pious cup 
Is passport to their house, and open arms 
To him who gave it; and once there I warrant 
I worm thro' all their windings. 

A7itonius. If you prosper, 

Our Senate, wearied of their tetrarchies. 
Their quarrels with themselves, their spires at Rome, 
Is like enough to cancel them, and throne 
One king above them all, who shall be true 
To the Roman : and from what I heard in Rome, 
This tributary crown may fall to yon. 

Synorix. The king, the crown ! their talk in Rome ? 
is it so ? [Antonius nods. 

Well — I shall serve Galatia taking it, 
And save her from herself, and be to Rome 
More faithful than a Roman. 

[Turns and sees Camma coming. 
Stand aside, 
Stand aside ; here she comes ! 

[ Watching Camma as she enters with her Maid. 

Camma {to Maid). Where is he, girl ? 

Maid. You know the waterfall 

That in the summer keeps the mountain side. 
But after rain o'erleaps a jutting rock 
And shoots three hundred feet. 

Camma. The stag is there ? 



r-iiG 



THE CUP. 



Maid. Seen in the thicket at the bottom tlieie 
But j'Sfter-even. 

Camma. Good then, we will climb 

The mountain opposite and watch the chase. 

[They descend the rocks, and exeunt. 

Synorix (loatching her). (A.side.) The bust of Juuo 
and the brows and ej'es 
Of Venus; face and form unmatchable ! 

Antonius. Why do you look at her so lingeringly ? 

Synorix. To see if years have changed her. 

Antonius {sarcastically). Love her, do yon f 

Synorix. 1 envied Sinnatus when he married her. 

Antoniris. She knows it ? Ila ! 

Synorix. Slie— no, nor ev'n my face. 

Antonius. Nor Siiniatus either? 

Synorix. No, nor Sinnatus. 

Antonitis. Hot-blooded ! I have heard them say in 
Rome, 
That your own people cast you from their bounds, 
Fi>r some unpriiicely violence to a woman. 
As Rome did Tarquin. 

Synorix. Well, if this were so, 

I here return like Tarquin — for a crown. 

Antonius. And may be foil'd like Tarqiiir, if you 
follow 
Not the dry light of Rome's straight-going policy, 
But the fool-fire of love or lust, which well 
May make you lose yourself, may even drown you 
In the good regard of Rome. 

Synorix. Tut— fear me not ; 

I ever had my victories among women. 
I am most true to Rome. 

Antonius (aside). I hate the man ! 

What lilthy tools our Senate works with ! Still 
I must obey them. {Aloud.) Fare you well. [Going. 

Synorix. Farewell ! 

Antonius {stopping). A moment ! If you track this 
Sinnatus 
In any treason, I give you here an order 

[Produces a paper. 
To seize upon him. Let me sign it. {Signs it.) There 
"Antonius leader of the Roman Legion." 

[Hands the pnjier to Synokix. Goes up 
pathway, and exit. 

Synorix. Woman again ! — but I am wiser now. 
No rushing on the game — the net, — the net. 

[S/iotfts 0/ "Sinnatus ! Sinnatus I" Then horn. 
{Looking off stage.) He comes, a rough, bluff, simple- 
looking fellow. 
If we may judge the kernel by the husk, 
Not one to keep a woman's fealty when 
Assailed by Craft and Love. I'll join with him : 
I may reap something from him — come uprtu her 
Again, peihaps, to-day — her. Wlio are with him ? 
I see no face that knows me. Shall I risk it? 
I am a Roman now, they dare not touch me. 
I will. 

Enter Sinnatus, Hitntsmicn, and hounds. 
Fair Sir, a happy day to you ! 
You reck btit little of the Roman here, 
While you can take your pastime in the woods. 
Sin7iahis. Ay, ay, why not? What would you with 

nie, man? 
Synorix. I am a life-long lover of the chase, 
And tho' a stranger faiii would be allow'd 
To join the hunt. 
Sinnatus. Your name? 

Synorix. Strato, my name. 

Sinyuitns. No Roman name? 

Sytiorix. A (Jreek, my lord ; yon know 

That we Galatians are both Greek and Gaul. 

[Shouts and horns in tlie distance. 
Sinnatus. Ilillo, the stair ! (V'o Synoulk.) What, 
yon .ire all unfurnish'd? 
Give him a bow and arrows — follow — follow. 

[Exit, followed by Hunt-imen. 
Synorix. Slowly but surely — till I see my waj". 



It is the one step in the dark beyond 
Our expectation, that amazes us. 

[Distant shouts and horns. 
Hillo ! Hillo I [Exit Stnonix. Shouts and horns. 



SCENE II.— A ROOM IN THE TE- 
TllAKCH'S HOUSE.— Evi-:xiNG. 

Frescoed pjures 071 the wills. Moonlight outside. A 
couch with cushions on it. A sniall table with flag- 
on of wine, cups, plate of grapes, etc., also the cup 
of Scene I. A chair with drapery on it. 

Camma enters, and opens curtains of window. 
Camma. No Sinnatus yet — and there the rising 
moon. 

[Takes up a cithern and sits on couch. Plays 
and sing.'i. 

" Moon on tlje field and the foam. 
Moon on the waste and the wold. 
Moon bring hin\ home, bring him home 

Safe from the dark and the cold, 
Home, 8weet moon, brinj; him home, 
Home with the flock to the fold- 
Safe from the wolf"— 

(Listening.) Is he coming? I thought I he;ird 
A footstep. No not yet. They say that Rome 
Sprang from a wolf I fear my dear lord mixt 
With some con.s])iracy against the wolf 
This mountain shepherd never dream'd of Rome. 

(Sings.) " .Safe from the wolf to the fold "— 

And that great break of precipice that runs 
Thro' all the wood, where twenty years ago 
Huntsman, and hound, and deer were all neck-broken .' 
Nay, here he come.s. 

Enter Sinnatdb, followed by SvNOutx. 
Sinnatus (angrily). I tell thee, my good fellow, 
My arrow struck the stag. 

Synorix. But was it so ? 

Nay, you were further off: besides the wind 
V\'ei!t with tny arrow. 
Sintialus. I am sure / struck him. 

Synorix. And I am just as sure, my lord, / struck 
him. 
(A.fide.) And I may strike yimr game when you arc 
gone. 
Camma. Come, come, we will not quarrel about the 
stag. 
I have had a weary day in watching you. 
Yours must have been a wearier. Sit and eat, 
And take a hunter's veni;e.iucc on the meats. 
Sinnatua. No, no — we have eaten — we are heated. 

Wine 1 
Camma. Who is our guest ? 

Smnatus. Strato he calls himself. 

[Camma offi rs wine to Synouix, tvhilc Sinnatus 
helps himself. 
Sinnatus. I pledge you, Strato. [Drinks. 

Synorix. And I you, my lord. [Drinkt. 

Sinnatus (seeing the cup sent to Camma). Wliat'e 

here f 
Camma. A strange gift sent to me to-d.iy. 
A sacred cup saved from a blazing shrine 
Of our gieai Goddess, in some city where 
Antonius past. I had believed that Rome 
Made war upon the peoples not the Gods. 

Synorix. Most like the city rose against Antonius, 
Whereon he tired it, and the sacred shrine 
By chance was burnt along with it. 

Sinnatus. Had you then 

No message with the cup? 

Camma. Why, yes, see here. [Gives him the scroll. 
Sin.naius (read.s). 

" To the admired Camma, — beheld j-oa afar off— loved you— scnrla 
you this cup — the oup we use in our marriage3 — cannot at present 
write himself other than 

*' A GalaTIAN 9BRVINO BV PORCB IN THE ROMAN LeGION." 

Serving by force 1 Were there no boughs to hang on. 



THE CUP. 



397 



Rivers to drown in ? Serve by force ? No force 
Could make me !?erve by force. 

Synorix. How tlieii, mj' lord? 

The Koraan i.s encampt withont your city — 
The force of Rome a thousand-fold onr own. 
Must all Galatia liang or drown her.self f 
And you a Prince and Tetrarch in this province— 

Sinnatus. Province ! 

Syuorix. Well, well, they call it so in Rome. 

SitDiatus {angrily). Province ! 

Synorix. A noble anger! but Antonius 
To-morrow will demand your tribute — you, 
Can you make war f Have you alliauce.s ? 
Bithynia, Pontus, Paphlagonia? 
We have had onr leagues of old with Eastern kings. 
There is my hand — if such a league there be. 
What will you do? 

Sinnatv4i. Not set myself abroach 

And run my mind out to a random guest 
Who join'd me in the hunt. You saw my hnuuds 
True to the scent; and we have two-legg'il dogs 
Among us who can smell a true occasion, 
And when to bark and how. 

Synorix. My good Lord Sinnatus, 

I once was at the hunting of a lion. 
Kouseil by the clamor of tlie chase he woke, 
Came to the front of the wood — his monarch mane 
Bristled about his quick ears — he stood there 
Staring upon the hunter. A score of dogs 
Gnaw'd at his ankles: at the last he felt 
The trouble of his feet, ])ul forth one paw, 
Slew four, and knew it not, and so reniain'd 
Staring upon the hunter: and this Rome 
Will crush you if you wrestle with her; then 
Save for some sliglit report in her own Senate 
Scarce know what she has done. 

(Aside.) Would I could move him, 
Provoke him any way ! (AUnid.) The Lady Camina, 
Wi.^^e I am sure as she is beautiful, 
Will close with me that to submit at ouce 
Is better than a wholly-hopeless war, 
Our gallant citizens murder'd all in vain, 
Son, husbaud, brother gash'd to death in v.iin, 
And the small state more cruelly trampled on 
Thau had she never moved. 

Camma. Sir, 1 had once 

A boy who died a babe; but were he living 
And grown to man and Sinnatus will'd ii, I 
Would set him in the front rank of the tight 
With scarce a pang, {liifses.) Sir, if a state submit 
At once, she may be blotted out at once 
And swallow'd in the conqueror's chronicle. 
Whereas in wars of freedom and defence 
The glory and grief of battle won or lost 
Solders a race together— yea — tho' they fail. 
The names of those who fought and foil are like 
A bank'd-up fire that flashes out again 
From century to century, and at last 
May lead them on to victory — I hope so — 
Like phantoms of the Gods. 

Sinnatus. Well spoken, wife. 

Synorix {bowing). Madam, so well I yield. 

Sinnatus. I siiould not wourler 

If Synorix, who has dwelt three years iji R^mie 
And wrought his worst against his native land. 
Returns with this Antonius. 

Synorix. What is Synorix ? 

Siiinatuf. Galatian, and not know? This Synorix 
Was Tetrarch here, and tyrant also— did 
Dishonour to our wives. 

.Synorix. Perhaps you judge him 

With feel)!e charity: being as you tell me 
Tetrarch, there might be willing wives enough 
To feel dishonor, honor. 

Camma. Do not say so. 

I know of no such wives in all Galatia. 
There may be courtesans for aught I know 
Whose life is. one dishonor. 



Enter Attendant. 
Attendant {aside). My lord, the raen ! 

Sinnatus (aside). Our anti-Roman faction ? 
Attendant {aside). Ay, my lord. 

Synorix {overhearing), (.iside.) 1 have enough — 

their anti-Roman faction. 
Sinnattis {aloud). Some friends of mine would speak 
with me without. 
You, Strato, make gj -d cheer till I return. [Exit. 

Synorix. I have much to say, no time to say it in. 
First, lady, know myself am that Galatian 
Who sent the cup. 
Camma. I thank you from my hetirt. 

Synorix. Then that I serve with Rome to serve 
Galatia. 
That is my secret : keep it, or you sell me 
To torment and to death. [Coming closer. 

For your ear only^ 
I love you— for your love to the great Goddess. 
The Romans sent me here a spy upon yim, 
To draw you and your husband to your doom. 
I'd sooner die than do it. 

[Takes out paper given him by Antonius. 
This paper sign'd 
Antonius— will you take it, read it ? there 1 
Camma {Reads). 

** You are to seize on Sinnatus, — if — " 

Synorix {snatches paj^er). No more. 

What follows is for no wife's eyes. O Camma, 
Rome has a glimpse of this conspiracy ; 
Rome never yet hath spar'd conspirator. 
Horrible ! flaying, scourging, crucifying — 

Camma. I am tender enough. Why do you practise 
on me ? 

Synoriji. Why should I practise on you ? How you 
wnmg me I 
I am sure of being every way malign'd. 
And if you should betray me to your husband — 

Camma. Will you betray him by this order? 

Synorix. See, 

I tear it all to pieces, never dream'd 
Of acting on it. [Tears the paper. 

Camma. I owe yon thanks for ever. 

Synorix. Ilath Sinnatus never told you of this plot? 

Camma. What plot ? 

Synorir. A child's sand-castle on the beach 

For the next wave— all seen, — all calculated. 
All known by Rome. No chance for Sinnatus. 

Camma. Why said you not as much to ray brave 
Sinnatus? 

Synorix. Brave— ay— too brave, too over-confident, 
Too like to ruin himself, and you, and me ! 
Who else, with this black thunderbolt of Rome 
Above him, would have chased the stag to-day 
In the full face of all the Roman camp? 
A miracle that they let him home again. 
Not caught, maim'd, blinded him. [Camma shudders. 
{A.side.) I have made her tremble. 
{.iloud.) I know they mean to torture him to death. 
I dare not tell him how I came to know it; 
I durst not trust him with— my serving Rome 
To serve Galatia : yon heard him on the letter. 
Not say as much ? I all but said as much. 
I am sure 1 told him that his plot was folly. 
I say it to you — you are wiser — Rome knows all, 
But you know not the savagery of Rome. 

Camma. O— have you power with Rome? use it for 
him ! 

Synorix. Alas ! I have no such power with Rome. 
All that 
Lies with Antonius. 

[As if struck by a sudden thought. Comes over to her 
He will pass to-morrow 
In the gray dawn before the Temple doors. 
You have beauty, — O great beauty, — and Autoniu.'', 
So gracious toward women, never yet 



398 



THE CUP. 



Flung back a woman's prayer. Plead to him, 
I am sure you will prevail. 

Cavima. Still— I should tell 

My husband. 

Hinwiix. Will he let you plead for him 
To a Roman ? 

Camma. I fear not. 

Sytwrix. Then do not tell him. 

Or tell him, if you will, when you return, 
When yon have charm'd our general into mercy, 
And all is safe again. O dearest lady, 

IMurmnrs of "Synorix ! Syuorix 1" heard outside. 
Think,— torture,— death, -and come. 

Camma. I will, I will. 

And I will not betray you. 

Si/n<rrix {aside). (As Si^^.ktos enters.) Stand apart. 

Enter Sinnatds and Attendant. 

Sinnatus. Thou art that Synorix ! One whom thou 
hast wrong'd 
Without there, knew thee with Antoiiins. 
They howl for thee, to rend thee head from limb. 

Hijnorix. I am much malign'd. I thought to serve 
Galatia. 

Sinnatns. Serve thyself ttrst, villain 1 They shall 
not harm 
My guest within my house. There ! {jioints to door) 

there ! this door 
Opens upon the forest ! Out, begone ! 
Henceforth I am thy jnortal enemy. 

Synorix. However I thank thee (draws his .tvnrd) ; 
thou hast saved my life. IKxit. 

Sinnatus (to Attendant). Return and tell them Sy- 
norix is not here. [Exit Attendant. 
What did that villain Synorix say to you ? 

Camma. Is he — that — Synorix? 

Sinnatus. Wherefore should youatloubt it ? 

One of the men there knew him. 

Camma. Only one. 

And he perhaps mistaken in the face. 

Siniuxtiis. Come, come, could he deny it? What 
did he say ? 

Camma. What s/iouM he say ? 

Sinnatus. What should he sny, my wife ! 

He should say this, that being Telrarch once 
His own true peo])le cast him from their doors 
Like a base coin. 

Camma. Not kindly to them ? 

Sijmatn.f. Kindly? 

O the most kindly Prince in all the world ! 
Would clap his lionest citizens on the back, 
Bandy their own rude jests with them, be curious 
About the welfare of their babes, their wives, 
O ay — their wives — their wives. What should he say ? 
He should say nothing to my wife if I 
Were by to throttle him ! He steep'd himself 
In all tlie lust of Rome. How should you guess 
What manner of beast it is? 

Camma. Yet he seem'd kindly. 

And said he loathed the cruelties that Rome 
Wrought on her vassals. 

Simmtus. Did he, honwt man ? 

Camma. And you, that seldom brook the stranger 
here, 
Have let him hunt the stag with you to-day. 

Sintiatus. 1 warrant you now, he said he struck the 
stag. 

Camma. Why no, he never touch'd upon the stag. 

Sinnatus. Why so I said, my arrow. Well, to sleei). 
[Goes to elo,<te door. 

Camma. Nay, close not yet the door upon a night 
That looks half day. 

Sinnatus. True; and my friends may spy him 

And slay him as he nins. 

Camma. He is gone already. 

Oh look, — yon grove upon the mountain, — wliite 
In the sweet moon as with a lovelier snow I 
But what a blotch of blackness underneath ! 



Sinnatus, you remember — yea, you must, 

That there three years ago— the vast vine-bowers 

Ran to the summit of the trees, and dropt 

Their streamers earthwaid, wliich a breeze of May 

Took ever and anon, and open'd out 

The puiple zone of hill and lieaven ; there 

You told your love; and like the swaying vines — 

Yea,— with our eyes, — our hearts, oav prophet hopes 

Let in the happy distance, and that all 

But cloudless heaven which we h.ive found together 

lu our three married years ! You kiss'd me there 

For the first time. Sinuatns, kiss me now. 

Sinnatus. First kiss. (Kisses her.) There then. 
You talk almost as if it 
Might be the last. 

Camma. Will you not eat a little ? 

Sinnalus. No, no, we found a goat-herd's hut and 
shared 
His fruits and milk. Liar! You will believe 
Now tliat he never struck the stag — a brave one 
Which you shall see to-morrow. 

Camma. I rise to-morrow 

In the gray dawn, and take this holy cup 
To lodge it in the shriue of Artemis. 

Sinnatiis. Good ! 

Camma. If I be not back in half an hour. 

Come after me. 

Sinnatus. W'hat ! is there danger? 

Camma. Nay, 

None that I know : 'tis but a step from here 
To the Temple. 

Sinnatus. All my brain is full of sleep. 

Wake me before you go, I'll after you — 
After me now ! [Closes door and exit. 

Camilla (draicinrf curtains). Your shadow. Synorix — 
His face was not malignant, and he said 
That men malign'd him. Shall I go f Shall I go f 
Death, torture — 

" He never yet flung back a woman's prayer " — 
I go, but I will have my dagger with me. [Exit 



SCENE III. 



-SAME AS SCENE I. 
Dawn. 



Mtisic and Sinning in the Temple. 

Enter Stnouix ivatchfullii, after him PtJBi.irs and 

Soldiers. 

Synorix. Publius! 

Piiblius. Here ! 

Synorix. Do you remember what 

I told you ? 

l'ul>liu.i. When you cry " Rome, Rome," to seize 
On wlionisncver may be talking with you, 
Or man, or woman, as traitors unto Rome. 

Synorix. Right. Back again. How many of you 
are there? 

Publius. Some half a score. 

lExeunt Soldiers and Prni.ius. 

Synorix. I have my guard about me, 

I need not fear the crowd that hunted nie 
Across the woods, last night. I hardly gaiu'd 
The camp at midnight. Will she come to me 
Now that she knows me Synorix ? Not if Sinnatus 
Has told her all the truth about me. Well, 
I cannot help the mould that I was cast in. 
I fling all that uyion my fate, my star. 
I know that I am genial, I would be 
H.ippy, and make all others happy so 
They did not thwart me. Nay, slio will not come. 
Yet if she be a true and loving wife 
She may, perchance, to save this husband. Ay ! 
See, see, my white bird stepping toward the snare. 
Why now I count it all but miracle. 
That this brave heart of mine sliould shake me 80, 
As helplessly as some unbearded boy's 
When first he meets his maiden in a bower. 



THE CUP. 



399 



Enter Camma (with cup). 

Hynnrix. The lark first takes the sunlight on his 
wing. 
But you, twin sister of the moruiiig star, 
I'orelead the suu. 

Cavinia. Where is Antouius? 

Synorix. Not here as yet. You are too early for 
hiiu. [She crosses tvwaids Temple. 

Si/norix. Nay, whither go you uow? 

Camma. To lodge this cup 

Withiu the holy shriue of Artemis, 
And so returu. 

^ijnorix. To find Antonius here. 

[She goes into tite Temjile, he looks after her. 
Tlie loveliest life that ever drew the light 
From heaven to brood upon her, and enrich 
Earth with her shadow ! I trust she icill return. 
These Romans dare not violate the Temple. 
No, I must lure luy game into the camp. 
A woman I could live and die for. What ! 
Die for a woman, what new faith is this? 
I am not mad, not sick, not old euough 
To dote on one alone. Yes, mad for her, 
Camma the stately, Camma the great-hearted, 
So mad, 1 fear sume strange and evil chance 
Coming upon me, for by the Gods I seem 
Strange to myself 

Reenter Camma. 
Camma. Where is Antonius? 

Synoiix. Where? As I said before, you are still too 

early. 
Camma. Too early to be here alone with thee ; 
For whether men malign thy name, or no, 
It bears an evil savor among women. 
Where is Antonius ? (Loud.) 

Synorix. Madam, as you know 

Tlie camp is half a league without the city ; 
If you will walk with me we needs must meet 
Antonius coming, or at least shall flud him 
There in the camp. 

Cam.ma. No, not one step with thee. 

Where is Antonius? (Louder.) 
Synorix (advancing towards her). Then for your own 
sake. 
Lady, I say it with all gentleness, 
And for the sake of Sinnatus your husband, 
I must compel you. 
Camma (drawing her dagger). Stay ! • - too near is 

death. 
Synorix {disarming her). Is it not easy to disarm a 
woman ? 

Enter Sinnatcs (seizci him from behind by the 

throat). 
Synorix {throttled and .scarce audible). Rome ! Rome I 
Sinnatus. Adulterous dog ! 



Synorix {stabbing him with Cajuma's dagger). What t 
will you have it ? 

[Cam.ma utters a cry and rxins to Sinnatus. 

Sintiatus {falls backward). I have it in ray heart — 
to the Temple— fly— 
For my sake— or they seize on thee. Remember ! 
Away — farewell ! [Dies. 

Camma (runs up the steps into the Temple, looking 
back). Farewell ! 

Synorix (seeing Iter escape). The women of the Tem- 
ple drag lier in. 
Publius! Publins! No, 
Antonius would not suffer me to break 
Into the sanctuary. She hath escaped. 

[Looking down at Sinnatds. 
"Adulterous dog!" that red-faced rage at me ! 
Then with one quick sliort stab — eternal peace. 
So end all passions. Then what use in passioJis? 
To warm the cold bounds of our dying life 
And, lest we freeze in mortal apathy, 
Employ us, heat us, quicken us, help us, keep us 
From seeing all too near that urn, those ashes 
Which all must be. Well used, they serve us well. 
I heard a saying in Egypt, that ambition 
Is like the sea wave, which the more you drink, 
The more you thirst— yea— drink too much, as men 
Have done on rafts of wreck — it drives you mad. 
I will be no such wreck, am no such gamester 
As, having won the stake, would dare the chauce 
Of double, or losing all. The Roman Senate, 
For I have always play'd into their hands. 
Means me the crown. And Camma for my bride — 
The people love her — if I win her love. 
They too will cleave to me, as one with her. 
There then I rest, Rome's tributary king. 

[Looking down on Sinnatus. 
Why did I strike him? — having proof euough 
Against the mau, I surely should have left 
That stroke to Rome. He saved my life too. Did he ? 
It seem'd so. I have play'd the sudden fool. 
And that sets her against me— for the moment. 
Camma — well, well, I never found the womaa 
I could not force or wheedle to my will. 
She will be glad at last to wear my crown. 
And I will make Galatia prosperous too. 
And we will chirp among our vines, and smile » 

At bygone things till that (pointing to Sinnatus) eter- 
nal peace. 
Rome ! Rome ! 

Enter Publius and Soldiers. 
Twice I cried Rome. Why came ye not before ? 
Publius. Why come we uow ? Whom shall we seize 

upon ? 
Synorix {2iointing to the body of Sinnatus). The body 
of that dead traitor Sinnatus. 
Bear him away. 

Music and Singing in Temple. 



ACT 11. 



SCENE.— INTERIOR OF THE TEMPLE 
OF ARTEMIS. 

Small gold gates on platform in front of the veil before 
the colossal statue of the Goddess, and in tlie centre 
of the Temple a tripod altar, on which is a lighted 
lamp. Lamps (lighted) .suspended between each pil- 
lar. Tripods, voJies, garlands of flower. t, etc., about 
stage. A Itar at back close to Goddess, xoith two cups. 
Solemn music. Priestesses decorating the Temple. 

Enter a Peiebtf.ss. 
Pri'ste!<s. Phoebe, that man from Synorix, who has 



been 



So oft to see the Priestess waits once more 
Before the Temple. 

Phoebe. We will let her know. 

[Signs to one of the Priestesses, who goes out. 
Since Camma fled from Synorix to our Temple, 
And for her beauty, stateliness, and power. 
Was chosen Priestess here, have you not murk'd 
Her eyes were ever on the marble floor ? 
To-day they are flxt and bright — they look straight 

out. 
Hath she made up her mind to marry him ? 

Priestess. To marry him who stabb'd her Sinnatus. 
You will not easily make me credit that. 

Phoebe. Ask her. 



26 



400 



THE CUP. 



Enter Camma os Priestess {in front of the curtains). 

Priestess. You will not marry Synorix ? 

Camma. My girl, I am the bride of Death, and only 
Marry the dead. 

/•riestes. Not Synorix then ? 

Camma. My girl, 

At times this oracle ol' great Artemis 
Has no more power than other oracles 
To speak directly. 

Phoebe. Will you speak to him, 

The messenger from Synorix who waits 
Before the Temple ? 

Camma. Why not? Let him enter. 

[Come^ forward on to step by tripod. 

Enter a Messenqee. 

Messenger [kneels). Greeting and health from Syno- 
^ rix ! More than once 

You have refused his hand. When last I saw you, 
You all but yielded. He entreats you now 
For your last answer. When he struck at Sinnatus— 
As I have many a time declared to you— 
He knew not at the moment who had fasten'd 
About his throat— he begs you to forget it 
As scarce his act:— a random stroke: all else 
Was love for you : he prays you to believe him. 

Camma. I pray him to believe — that I believe him. 

Messenger. Why that is well. You mean to marry 
him ? 

PrtWTHa. I mean to marry him — if that be well. 

Messenger. This very day tlie Romans crown him 
king 
For all his faithful services to Rome. 
He wills you then this day to marry him, 
And so be throned together in the sight 
Of all the people, that the world may know 
Yon twain are reconciled, and no more feuds 
Disturb our peaceful vassalage to Rome. 

Cawma. To-day ? Too sudden. I will brood upon it. 
When do they crown him ? 

Messenger. Even now. 

Camma. And where ? 

Messenger. Here by your Temple. 

Camma. Come once more to me 

Before the crowning,— I will answer you. 

[Exit Messenger. 

Phoebe. Great Artemis ! O Camma, can it be well, 
Or good, or wise, that you should clasp a band 
Red with the sacred blood of Sinnatus? 

Camyna. Good '. mine own dagger driven by Synorix 
found 
All good in the true heart of Sinnatus, 
And quench'd it there for ever. Wise ! 
Life yields to death and wisdom bows to Fate, 
Is wisest, doing so. Did not this man 
Speak well ? We cannot fight imperial Rome, 
But he and I are both Galatian-born, 
And, tributary sovereigns, he and I 
Might teach this Rome— from knowledge of our peo- 
ple- 
Where to lay on her tribute— heavily here 
And lightly there. Might I not live for that, 
And drown all poor self-passion in the sense 
Of public good? 

Phoebe. I am sure you will not marry him. 

Camma. Are you so sure? I pray you wait and see. 
[Shouts {from the distance), " Synorix 1 Synorix !" 

Camma. Synorix, Synorix I So they cried Sinnatus 
Not so long since — they sicken me. The One 
Who shifts his policy suffers something, must 
Accuse himself, excuse himself; the Many 
Will feel no shame to give themselves the lie. 

Phoebe. Most like it was the Roman soldier shouted. 

Camma. Their shield-borne patriot of the morning 
star 
Hang'd at mid-dny, their traitor of the dnwn 
The clamor'd darling of their afternoon ! 



And that same head they would have play'd at ball 

with, 
And kick'd it featureless— they now would crown. 

[.Flourish of trumpets. 

Enter a Galatian Nobleman with crown on a cushion. 
Nobleman {kneels). Greeting and health from Synorix. 
He sends you 
This diadem of the first Galatian Queen, 
That you may feed your fancy on the glory of it. 
And join your life this day with his, and wear it 
Beside him on his throne. He waits your answer. 
Camma. Tell him there is one shadow among the 
shadows. 
One ghost of all the ghosts — as yet so new, 
So strauge among them — such an alien there, 
So much of husband in it still — that if 
The shout of Synorix and Camma sitting 
Upon one throne, should reach it, it would rise 
He I . . . He, with that red star between the ribs. 
And my kuife there^aud blast the king and me. 
And blanch the crowd with horror. I dare not, sir ! 
Throne him — and then the marriage — ay and tell 

him 
That I accept the diadem of Galatia— 

[A II are amazed. 
Yea, that ye saw me crown myself withal. 

[Puts on the crown. 
I wait him his crown'd queen. 
Noblenmn. So will I tell him. 

[Exit. 
[Music. Two Priestesses go up the steps before the 
shrine, draw the curtains on either side (discover- 
ing the Goddess), then open the gates and remain 
on steps, one on either side, and kneel. A Priest- 
ess goes off and returns tvith a veil of marriage, 
then assists Ph<ebe to veil Camma. At the same 
time Priestesses enter and stand on either side of 
the Temple. Camma and all the Fh-iestesses kneel, 
raise their hands to the Goddess, and bow down. 
[i(7ioi(<.s, " Synorix ! Synorix!" All rise. 
Camma. Fling wide the doors, and let the new- 
made children 
Of our imperial mother see the show. 

[Sunlight pours throtigh the doors. 
I have no heart to do it. {To Puoinrt. ) Look for 
me ! [Crottefies. PutEnE looks out. 

[Shouts, " Synorix 1 Synorix !" 
Phoebe. He climbs the throne. Hot blood, ambi- 
tion, pride 
So bloat and redden his face— O would it were 
His third last apoplexy ! O bestial ! 
O how unlike our goodly Sinnatus. 
Camma {on the ground). You wrong him surely ; far 
as the face goes 
A goodlier-looking man than Sinnatus. 
Phoebe (a-nde). How dare she say it? I could hate 
her for it 
But that she is distracted. [A flourish of trumpets. 
Camma. Is he crown'd ? 

Phoebe. Ay, there they crown him. 

[Croird without shout, "Synorix ! Synorix !" 
Camma [rises). Rouse the dead altar-flame, fling in 
the spices. 
[A Priestess brings a box of spices to Camma, who 
throics them, on the altar-flame. 
Nard, cinnamon, amomum, benzoin. 
Let all the air reel into a mist of odor. 
As in the midmost heart of Paradise. 
Lay down the Lydian carpets for the king. 
The king should pace on purple to his bride. 
And music there to greet my lord the king. [Music. 
{To Pu(EBE.) Dost thou remember when I wedded 

Sinnatus? 
Ay, thou wast there- whether from maiden fears 
Or reverential lova for him I loved, 
Or some strange second-sight, the marriage-cup 
Wherefrom we make libation to the Goddess 



THE CUP. 



401 



So shook within my hand, that the red wine 
Ran down the marble and lookt like blood, like blood. 
Phcebe. I do remember your flrst-marriage fears. 
Caninia. I have no fears at this my secoud marriage. 
See here— I stretch my hand out — hold it there. 
How steady it is ! 
Phcebe. Steady euongh to stab him ! 

Camma. O hush 1 O peace 1 This violence ill be- 
comes 
The silence of our Temple. Gentleness, 
Low words best chime with this solemnity. 

[Enter a procession of Priestesses and Children 
bearing garlands and golden goblets, and strewing 
floicers. 

Enter Synoeix {as King, with gold kiurel-wreath crown 
and purple robes), followed by Antonius, Pcbi.ius, 
Noblemen, Guards, and the Populace. 

Camma. Hail, King ! 
Synorix. Hail, Queen '. 

The wheel of Fate has roll'd me to the top. 
I would that happiness were gold, that I 
Might cast ray largess of it to the crowd I 
I would that every man made feast to-day 
Beneath the shadow of our pines and planes ! 
For all my truer life begins to-day. 
The past is like a travell'd land now sunk 
Below the horizon — like a barren shore 
That grew salt weeds, but now all drowu'd in love 
And glittering at full tide — the bounteous bays 
And havens filling with a blissful sea. 
Nor speak I now too mightily, being King 
And happy ! happiest. Lady, in my power 
To make you happy. 
Camma, Yes, sir. 

Synorix. Our Antonius, 

Our faithful friend of Rome, tho' Rome may set 
A free foot where she will, yet of his courtesy 
Entreats he may be present at our marriage. 

Camma. Let him come— a legion with him, if he will. 
(To Antonids.) Welcome, my lord Antonius, to our 

Temple. 
{To Synorix.) You on this side the altar. (To An- 
tonius.) You on that. 
Call first upon the Goddess, Synorix. 

[All face tlie Goddess. Priestesses, Children, Popti- 
lace, and Gtiards kiuel — the others remain stand- 
ing. 
Synorix. O Thou, that dost inspire the germ with life. 
The child, a thread within the house of birth. 
And give him limbs, then air, and send him forth 
The glory of his father — Thou whose breath 
Is balmy wind to robe our hills with grass, 
And kindle all our vales with myrtle-blossom, 
And roll the golden oceans of our grain. 
And sway the long grape-bunches of our vines, 
And fill all hearts with fatness and the lust 
Of plenty — make me happy in my marriage ! 

Chorus (cha7iting). Artemis, Artemis, hear him, 

Ionian Artemis ! 
Camma. O Thou that slayest the babe within the 
womb 
Or in the being born, or after slayest him 
As boy or man, great Goddess, whose storm-voice 
Uusockets the strong oak, and rears his root 
Beyond his head, and strows our fruits, and lays 
Our golden grain, and runs to sea and makes it 
Foam over all the fleeted wealth of kings 
And peoples, hear. 

Whose arrow is the plague— whose quick flash splits 
The mid-sea mast, and rifts the tower to the rock, 
And hurls the victor's column down with him 
That crowns it, hear. 

Who causest the safe earth to shudder and gape, 
And gulf and flatten in her closing chasm 
Domed cities, hear. 

Whose lava-torrents blast and blacken a province 
To a cinder, hear. 



Whose winter-cataracts find a realm and leave it 
A waste of rock and ruin, hear. I call thee 
To make my marriage prosper to my wish ! 
Chorus. Artemis, Artemis, hear her, Ephesian Ar- 
temis ! 
Camma. Artemis, Artemis, hear me, Galatian Arte- 
mis! 
I call on our owu Goddess in our own Temple. 
Chortis. Artemis, Artemis, hear her, Galatian Arte- 
mis ! [Thiindor. All rise. 
Synorix (a.<iide). Thunder ! Ay, ay, the storm was 
drawing hither 
Across the hills when I was being crown'd. 
I wonder if I look as pale as she ? 
Camma. Art thou — still bent — on marrying ? 
Synorix. Surely — yet 
These are strange words to speak to Artemis. 
Camma. Words are not always what they seem, my 
King. 
I will be faithful to thee till thou die 
Synorix, I thank thee, Camma, — I thank thee. 
Camma (turning to Antonius). Antonius, 
Much graced are we that our Queen Rome in you 
Deigns to look in upon our barbarisms. 

[Turn^, goes up steps to altar before the Goddess. 

Takes a cup from off the altar. Holds it towards 

Antonius. Antonius goes up to the foot of the 

steps, opposite to Svnokis. 

Yon see this cup, my lord. [Gives it to him. 

Antonius. Most curious! 

The many-breasted mother Artemis 
Emboss'd upon it, 

Camma. It is old, I know not 

How many hundred years. Give it me again. 
It is the cup belonging our own Temple. 

[Puts it back on altar, and takes up the cup of Act I. 
Showing it to Antonius. 
Here is another sacred to the Goddess, 
The gift of Synorix ; and the Goddess, being 
For this most grateful, wills, thro' me her Priestess, 
In honour of his gift and of our marriage, 
That Synorix should drink from his own cup. 
Synorix. I thanli thee, Camma, — I thank thee. 
Camma. ' For — my lord — 

It is our ancient custom in Galatia 
That eie two souls be knit for life and death. 
They two should drink together from one cup, 
In symbol of their married unity. 
Making libation to the Goddess. Bring me 
The costly wines we use in marriages. 

[Tfiey bring in a large jar of wine. Camma poura 

wine into cup. 

(To SvNOBix.) See here, I fill it. (To Antonius.) Will 

you drink, my lord? 

Antonius. I? Why should I? I am not to be married. 

Camma. But that might bring a Roman blessing on 

ns. 
Antonius. {refusing cup). Thy pardon. Priestess 1 
Camma. Thou art in the right 

This blessing is for Synorix and for me. 
See first I make libation to the Goddess, 

[Makes libation. 
And now I drink. [Drinks and fills the cup again. 

Thy turn, Galatian King. 
Drink and drink deep — our marriage will be fruitful. 
Drink and drink deep, and thou wilt make me happy. 
[Synorix goes up to her. She hands him the cup. 
He drinks. 
Synorix. There, Camma! I have almost drain'd the 
cup — 
A few drops left. 
Camma. Libation to the Goddess. 

[He throws the remaining drops on the altar and 
gives Camma the cttp. 
Camma {placing the cup on the altar). Why then 
the Goddess hears. 
[Comes down and forward to tripod. Antonids 
follows. 



402 



THE CUP. 



Antouins, 
Where wast thou on that moruiiig when I came 
To plead to thee for Siiiuatus's lil'e, 
Beside this temple half a year ago? 
Antonius. I never heard of this request of thine. 
Hyriorix (coming forward hastily to foot of tripod 
atepii). I sought him and I could not ttud him. 
Pray you, 
Go on with the marriage rites. 

Camilla. Antonius— 

" Camma !" who spake ? 
Antonius. Not I. 

Phoebe. Nor any here. 

Camma. I am all but sure that some one spake. 
Antonius, 
If you had found him plotting against Eome, 
Would you have tortured Sinuatns to death ? 
Antonius. No thought was mine of torture or of 
death, 
]5ut had I found him plotting, I had couusell'd him 
To rest fiom vain resistance. Rome is fated 
To rule the world. Then, if he had not listen'd, 
I might have sent him prisoner to liome. 

Synorix. Why do you palter with the ceremony ? 
Go on with the marriage rites. 
Camvm. They are finish' d. 

Synorix. How! 

Camma. Thou hast drunk deep enough to make me 
happy. 
Dost thou not feel the love I bear to thee 
Glow thro' thy veins? 

Synorix. The love I bear to thee 

Glows thro' my veins since first I look'd on thee. 
But wherefore slur the perfect ceremony? 
The sovereign of Galatia weds his Queen. 
Let all be done to the fullest in the sight 
Of all the Gods. (Starts.) This paiu— what is it?— 

again ? 
I had a touch of this lust year— in— Rome. 
Yes, yes. {To Antonius.) Your arm— a moment— It 

will pass. 
I reel beneath the weight of utter joy— 
This all too happy day, crown— queen at once. 

[Stagger.'i. 
O all ye Gods— Jupiter !— Jupiter ! [Falls backivard. 
Camma. Dost thou cry out upon the Gods of Rome. 
Thou art Galatian-born ? Onr Artemis 
Has vanquish'd their Diana. 

Synorix (on the ground). I am poison'd. 
She— close the Temple doors. Let her not fly. 
Camma (leaning on tripod). Have I not drunk of the 

same cup with thee? 
Synorix. Ay, by the Gods of Rome and all the 
world. 



She too— she too— the bride ! the Queen ! and I — 
Monstrous ! I that loved her. 
Camma. I loved him. 

Synorix. O murderous mad-woman ! I pray you lift 
nie 
And make rae walk awhile. I have heard these poisons 
May be walk'd down. 

[Antonius and Publiub raise him, up. 
My feet are tons of lead. 
They will break in the earth- 1 am sinking— hold me— 
Let me alone. 

[They leave him; he sinks dow7i on ground. 

Too late— thought myself wise — 

A woman's dupe. Antonius, tell the Senate 

I have been most true to Rome— would have been true 

To fte;-— if— if— [Falls as if dead. 

Camma (coming and leaning over him). So falls the 

throne of an hour. 
Synorix (half rising). Throne ? is it thou ? the Fates 
are throned, not we — 
Not guilty of ourselves — thy doom and mine — 
Thou — coming my way too — Camma — good-night. 

[Dies. 
Camma (iqjheld by weeping Priestesses). Thy way ? 
poor worm, crawl down thine own black hole 
To the lowest Hell. Antonius, is he there ? 
I meant thee to have follow'd— better thus. 
Nay, if my people must be thralls of Rome, 
He is gentle, tho' a Roman. 

[Sinks back into the arms of the Priestesses. 
Antonitts. Thou art one 

With thine own people, and tho' a Roman I 
Forgive thee, Camma. 

Camma (raising herself). "Camma!" — why there 
again 
I am most sure that some one call'd. O women, 
Ye will have Roman masters. I am glad 
I shall not see it. Did not some old Greek 
Say death was the chief good ? He had my fate for it, 
Poison'd. (Sinks back again.) Have I the crown on ? 

I will go 
To meet him, crown'd ! crown'd victor of my will — 
On my last voyage— but the wind has fail'd— 
Growing dark too— but light enough to row. 
Row to the blessed Isles ! the blessed Isles !— 
Sinuatus ! 

Why comes he not to meet me? It is the crown 
Offends him — and my hands are too sleepy 
To lift it oflT. [Pu(EUK takes the crown off. 

Who touch'd me then ? I thank you. 

[Rises, with outspread arms. 
There— league on league of ever-shining shore 
Beneath an ever-rising sun — I see him — 
" Camma, Camma !" Siunatus, Sinuatus ! [Dies. 



THE FALCON. 



403 



THE FALCON. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Thk Count Fepkrigo dt:om Alberigiii. 
Fii.ippo, the C'ouul's foster-brother. 



The Lady Giovanna. 

Elirauktta, the Conut's nurse. 



SCENE.— AN ITALIAN COTTAGE. CAS- 
TLE AND MOUNTAINS SEEN 
THROUGH WINDOW. 

Elisabetta discovered seated on stool in windoiu, darn- 
ing. The Count, with Falcon on his hand, comes 
down through the door at back. A withered wreath 
on the wall. 

Elisabetta. So, my lord, the Lady Giovannn, who 
hath been away so long, came back last night with 
her son to the castle. 

Count Hear that, my bird ! Art thou not jealous 
of her ? 
My princess of the cloud, my plumed purveyor, 
My far-eyed queeu of the winds — thou that canst 

soar 
Beyond the morning lark, and howsoe'er 
Thy quarry wind and wheel, swoop down upon him 
Eagle-like, lightning-like— strike, make his feathers 
Glance in mid heaven. [_Cro,ises to chair. 

I would thou hadst a mate ! 
Thy breed will die with thee, and mine with me : 
I am as lone and loveless as thyself. [Sits in chair. 
Giovanna here ! Ay, rufBe thyself— 6e jealous ! 
Thou should'st be jealous of her. Tho' I bred thee 
The fiill-train'd marvel of all falconry. 
And love thee and thou me, yet if Giovanna 
Be here again— No, no ! Buss me, my bird ! 
The stately widow has no heart for me. 
Thou are the last friend left me upon earth — 
No, no again to that. [Rises and turns. 

My good old nurse, 
I had forgotten thou wast sitting there. 

Elisabetta. Ay, and forgotten thy foster-brother too. 

Count. Bird-babble for my falcon ! Let it pass. 
What art thou doing there? 

Elisabetta. Darning, your lordship. 

We cannot flaunt it iu new feathers now : 
Nay, if we will buy diamond necklaces 
To please our lady, we must darn, my lord. 
ThiS'Old thing here {poinUt to necklace round her neck), 
they are but bine beads — my Piero, 
God rest his honest soul, he bought 'em for me, 
Ay, but he knew I meant to marry him. 
How couldst thou do it, my son ? How couldst thou 
do it ? 

Count. She saw It at a dance, upon a neck 
Less lovely than her own, and long'd for it. 

Elisabetta. She told thee as much ? 

Count. No, no — a friend of hers. 

Elisabetta. Shame on her that she took it at thy 
hands, 
She rich enough to have bought it for herself! 

Count. She would have robb'd me then of a great 
pleasure. 



Elisabetta. But hath she yet return'd thy love? 

Count. Not yet I 

Elisabetta. She should return thy necklace then. 

Count. Ay, if 

She knew the giver ; but I bound the seller 
To silence, and I left it privily 
At Florence, in her palace. 

Elisabetta. And sold thine own 
To buy it for her. She not know? She knows 
There's none such other 

Count. Madman anywhere. 

Speak freely, tho' to call a madman mad 
Will hardly help to make him sane again. 

Enter Filippo. 

Filippo. Ah, the women, the women 1 Ah, Monna 
Giovanna, yon here again ! you that have the face of 
an angel and the heart of a — that's too positive I Yon 
that have a score of lovers and have not a heart for 
any of them — that's positive-negative: you that have 
not the bead of a toad, and not a heart like the jewel 
in it — that's too negative ; yon that have a cheek like 
a peach and a heart like the stone in it— that's positive 
again— that's better 1 

Elisabetta. Sh—sh— Filippo! 

Filippo {turns half round). Here has onr master 
been a-glorifying and a-velvcting and a-silking him- 
self, and a-peacocking and a-spreading to catch her 
eye for a dozen year, till he hasn't an eye left in his 
own tail to flourish among the peahens, and all along 
o' you, Monna Giovanna, all along o' you ! 

Elisabetta. Sh—sh— Filippo 1 Can't yon hear that 
you are saying behind his back what yon see yon are 
saying afore his face? 

Count. Let him — he never spares me to my face ! 

Filippo. No, my lord, I never spare your lordship 
to your lordship's face, nor behind your lordship's 
back, nor to right, nor to left, nor to round about and 
back to your lordship's face again, for I'm honest, your 
lordship. 

Count. Come, come, Filippo, what is there in the 
larder? 
[Elisabetta crosses to fireplace and puts on wood. 

Filippo. Shelves and hooks, shelves and hooks, and 
when I see the shelves I am like to hang myself on 
the hooks. 

Coimt. No bread ? 

Filippo. Half a breakfast for a rat 1 

Count. Milk? 

Filippo. Three laps for a cat 1 

Count. Cheese ? 

Filippo. A snpper for twelve mites. 

Cormt. Eggs? 

Filippo. One, but addled. 

Count. No bird ? 

Filippo. Half a tit and a hern's bilL 



404 



THE FALCON. 



Count. Let be thy jokes and thy jerks, man I Any- 
thing or nothing T 

Filippo. Well, my lord, if all-biit-nothing be any- 
thing, and one plate of dried prunes be all-but-noth- 
ing, then there is anything in your lordship's larder 
at your lordship's service, if your lordship care to call 
for it. 

Count. Good mother, happy was the prodigal son, 
For he return'd to the rich father ; I 
But add my poverty to thine. And all 
Thro' following of my fancy. Pray thee make 
Thy slender meal out of those scraps and shreds 
Filippo spoke of As for him and me. 
There sprouts a salad in the garden still. 
{To the Falcon.) Why didst thou miss thy quarry yes- 

ter-eveu f 
To-day, my beauty, thou must dash us down 
Our dinner from the skies. Away, Filippo ! 

[Exit, followed by Filtppo. 

Elisahctta. I knew it would come to this. She has 
beggared him. I always knew it would come to this ! 
(Goes up to table as if to resume dariiing, and looks out 
of window.) Why, as I live, there is Mouna Giovanna 
coming down the hill from the castle. Stops and 
stares at our cottage. Ay, ay ! stare at it: it's all you 
have left us. Shame upon you 1 She beautiful 1 sleek 
as a miller's mouse ! Meal enough, meat enough, well 
fed ; but beautiful— bah ! Nay, see, why she turns 
down the path through our little vineyard, and I 
sneezed three times this morning. Coming to visit 
my lord, for the tirst time iu her life too ! M'hy, bless 
the saints 1 I'll be bound to confess her love to him 
at last. I forgive her, I forgive her ! I knew it would 
come to this — I always knew it must come to this ! 
{Ooing up to door during latter jfart of speech and opens 
it.) Come in. Madonna, come in. (Retiree to front of 
table and curtseys as the Lady Giovanna enters, then 
moves chair towards the hearth.) Nay, let me place 
this chair for your ladyship. 

[Lady Giovanna moves aloioly down stage, then 
crosses to chair, looking about her, boivs as she 
sees the Madonna over fireplace, then sits in chair. 

Lady Giovanna. Can I speak with the Count ? 

Elisabetta. Aj', my lady, but won't you speak with 
the old woman first, and tell her all about it and make 
her liappy ? for I've been on my knees every day for 
these half-dozen years iu hope that the saints would 
send us this blessed morning ; and he always took 
you so kindly, he always took the world so kindly. 
When he was a little one, and I put the bitters on 
my breast to wean him, he made a wry mouth at it, 
but he took it so kindly, and your ladyship has given 
him bitters enough in this world, and he never made 
a wry mouth at you, he always took you so kindly — 
which is more than I did, my lady, more than I did — 
and he so handsome — and bless your sweet face, you 
look as beautiful this morniug as the very Madonna 
her own self— and belter late than never — but come 
when they will— then or now — it's all for the best, 
come when they will — they are made by the blessed 
saints — these marriatres. [liaises her hands. 

Lady Giovantia. Marriages? I shall never marry 
again I 

Elisabetta (rises and turns). Shame on her then 1 

Lady Giovanna. Where is the Count f 

Elisabetta. Just gone 

To fly his falcon. 

Lady Giovanna. Call him back and say 

I come to breakfast with him. 

Elisabetta. Holy mother I 

To breakfast! Oh sweet saints ! one plate of prunes! 
Well, Madam, I will give your message to him. [Exit. 

Lady Giovanna. , Uis falcon, and I come to ask for 
his falcon. 
The pleasure of hie eyes — boast of his hand — 
Pride of his heart — the solace of his hours — 
His one companion here— nay, I have heard 
That, thro' his late magnificence of living 



And this last costly gift to mine own self, 

[Short's diamond necklace. 
He hath become so beggar'd, that his falcon 
Ev'n wins his dinner for him in the field. 
That must be talk, not truth, but truth or talk, 
How can I ask for his falcon ? 

[Rises and moves as she speaks. 
O my sick boy 1 
My daily fading Florio, it is thou 
Hath set me this hard task, for when I say 
What can I do— what can I get for thee? 
He answers, " Get the Count to give me his falcon. 
And that will make me well." Yet if I ask, 
He loves me, and he knows I know he loves me ! 
Will he not pray me to return his love — 
To marry him ?— (pause)— I can never marry him. 
His graudsire struck my grandsire in a brawl 
At Florence, and my grandsire stabb'd him there. 
The fend between our houses is the bar 
I cannot cross ; I dare not brave my brother, 
Break with my kin. My brother hates him, scorns 
The uoblest-natured man alive, and I — 
Who have that reverence for him that I scarce 
Dare beg him to receive his diamonds back — 
How can I, dare I, ask him for his falcon ? 

[Puts diamonds in her casket. 

Re-enter Count and Filippo. Count turns to 
Filippo. 

Count. Do what I said ; I cannot do it myself. 

Fili2}po. Why then, my loi'd, we are pauper'd out 
and out. 

Coimt. Do what I said! [Advances and bows low. 
Welcome to this poor cottage, my dear lady. 

Lady Giovanna. And welcome turns a cottage to a 
palace. 

Count. 'Tis long since we have met ! 

Lady Giovanna. To make amends 

I come this day to break my fast with you. 

Count. I am much liouour'd — yes — 

[Turns to Filippo. 
Do what I told thee. Must I do it myself? 

/•j^p^o. I will, I will. (Sighs.) PoorieWavfl [Exit. 

Count. Lady, you bring your light into my cottage 
Who never deigu'd to shine into my palace. 
My palace wanting you was but a cottage ; 
My cottage, while you grace it, is a palace. 

Lady Giovanna. In cottage or in palace, being still 
Beyond your fortunes, you are still the king 
Of courtesy and liberality. 

Count. I trust I still maintain my courtesy ; 
My liberality perforce is dead 
Thro' lack of means of giving. 

Lady Giovanna. Yet I come 

To ask a gift. [Moves towards him a little. 

Count. It will be hard, I fear. 

To find one shock upon the field when all 
The harvest has been carried. 

Lady Giovanna. But my boy 

(Aside.) No, uo ! not yet — I cannot 1 

Cotmt. Ay, how is he, 

That bright inheritor of your eyes— your boy? 

Lady Giovanna. Alas, my Lord Federigo, he hath 
fallen "» 

Into a sickness, and it troubles me. 

Count. Sick ! is it so? why, when he came last year 
To see me hawking, he was well enough : 
And then I taught him all our hawking-ijhrases. 

Lady Giovanna. Oh yes, and once you let him fly 
yonr falcon. 

Count. How charm'd he was! what wonder? A 

gallant boy, 
A noble bird, each perfect of the breed. 

Lady Giovanna (sinks in chair). What do yon rate 
her at ? 

Count. My bird ? a hundred 

Gold pieces once were ofTerd by the Duke. 
I hud no heart to part with her for money. 



THE FALCON. 



405 



Lady Giovanna. No, not for mouey. 

[Count txirna aivay and sighii. 
Wheiefoi'e do you sigh? 

Count. I have lost a frieud of late. 

Lady Giovanna. I could sigh with you 

For fear of losing more than friend, a sou ; 
And if he leave me — all the rest of life— 
That wither'd wreath were of more worth to me. 

ILookiny at wreath on ivall. 

Count. That wither'd wreath is of more worth to me 
Than all the blossom, all the leaf of this 
New-wakening year. [Goes and takes down wreath. 

Lady Giovanna. And yet I never saw 
The land so rich iu blossom as this year. 

Count {holding wreath toward.^ her). Was not the 
year when this was gather'd richer ? 

Lady Giovanna. How long ago was that? 

Count. Alas, ten summers ! 

A lady that was beautiful as day 
Sat by me at a rustic festival 
With other beauties on a mountain meadow, 
And she was the most beautiful of all ; 
Then but flfieen, and still as beautiful. 
The mountain flowers grew thickly round about. 
I made a wreath with some of these ; I ask'd 
A ribbon from her hair to bind it with ; 
I whisper'd, Let me crown you Queen of Beauty, 
And softly placed the chaplet on her head. 
A color, which has color'd all my life, 
Flush'd iu her face ; then I was call'd away; 
And presently all rose, and so departed. 
Ah ! she had thrown my chaplet on the grass, 
And there I found it. 

ILcts his hands fall, holding toreath despondingly. 

Lady Giovanna {after pause). How long since do you 
say? 

Count. That was the very year before yon married. 

Lady Giovanna. When I was married you were at 
the wars. 

Count. Had she not thrown ray chaplet on the grass, 

It may be I had never seen the wars. 

[Replaces wreath ivhence he had taken it. 

Lady Giovanna. Ah, but, my lord, there ran a ru- 
mor then 
That you were kill'd in battle. I can tell you 
True tears that year were shed for yon in Florence. 

Count. It might have been as well for me. Un- 
happily 
I was but wounded by the enemy there 
And then imprison'd. 

Lady Giovanna. Happily, however, 
I see you quite recover'd of your wound. 

Count. No, no, not quite. Madonna, not yet, not yet. 

Re-enter Filippo. 

Filippo. My lord, a word with you. 

Count. Pray, pardon me I 

[Laky Giovanna crosses, and passes behind chair 
and takes down wreath ; then goes to chair by 
table. 

Count {to Filippo). What is it, Filippo ? 

Filippo. Spoons, your lordship. 

Count. Spoons ! 

Filippo. Yes, my lord, for wasn't my lady born with 
a golden spoon in her ladyship's mouth, and we 
haven't never so much as a silver one for the golden 
lips of her ladyship. 

Count, Have we not half a score of silver spoons ? 

Filippo. Half o' one, my lord ! 

Count. How half of one? 

Filippo. I trod upon him even now, my lord, in my 
hurry, and broke him. 

Count. And the other nine? 

Filippo. Sold! but shall I not mount with your 
lordship's leave to her ladyship's castle, in your lord- 
ship's and her ladyship's name, and confer with her 
ladyship's seneschal, and so descend again with some 
of her ladyship's own appurtenances? 



Count. Why — no, man. Ouly see your cloth be 
clean. [Kxit Filippo. 

Lady Giovanna. Ay, ay, this faded ribbon was the 
mode 
In Florence ten years back. What's here ? a scroll 
Pinu'd to the wreath. 

My lord, you have said so much 
Of this poor wreath that I was bold enough 
To take it down, if but to guess what flowers 
Had made it ; and 1 find a written scroll 
That seems to run in rhyraings. Might I read? 
Count. Ay, if you will. 

Lady Giovanna. It should be if you can. 

{Reads.) "Dead mouutaiu." Nay, for who could 

trace a hand 
So wild and staggering ? 

Count. This was penu'd. Madonna, 

Close to the grating on a winter mom 
In the perpetual twilight of a prison. 
When he that made it, having his right hand 
Lamed in the battle, wrote it with his left. 
Lady Giovanna. Oh heavens ! the very letters seem 
to shake 
With cold, with pain perhaps, poor prisoner ! Well, 
Tell me the words — or better — for I see 
There goes a musical score along with them, 
Repeat them to their music. 

Count. Yon can touch 

No chord in me that would not answer you 
In music. 
Lady Giovanna. That is musically said. 

[Count takes guitar. Lapy Giovanna sits listen,- 
ing with wreath in her hand, and qxiietly removes 
scroll and places it on table at tlie end of the song. 
Count {sings, playing guitar). 

*' Dead mountain flowers, dead mountain-meadow flowers, 
Dearer than when you made your mountain gay. 
Sweeter than any violet of to-day, 
Richer than all the wide world-wealth of May, 
To me, tho' all your bloom has died away, 
You bloom again, dead mountain-meadow flowers." 

Enter Elisabetta, with cloth. 

Elisabetta. A word with you, my lord ! 

Count {singing). "O mountain flowers!" 

Elisabetta. A word, my lord ! {Louder.) 

Cotmt {sings). "Dead flowers!" 

Elisabetta. A word, my lord ! {Louder.) 

Count. I pray you pardon me again I 

[Lady Giovanna, looking at wreath. 

Count {to Elisabetta.) What is it? 

Elisabetta. My lord, we have but one piece of earth- 
enware to serve the salad in to my lady, and that 
cracked ! 

Cotmt. Why then, that flower'd bowl my ancestor 
Fetch'd from the farthest east— we never use it 
For fear of breakage — but this day has brought 
A great occasion. You can take it, nurse ! 

Elisabetta. I did take it, my lord, but what with my 
lady's coming that had so flurried me, and what with 
the fear of breaking it, I did break it, my lord : it is 
broken ! 

Count. My one thing left of value in the world ! 
No matter ! see your cloth be white as snow 1 

Elisabetta {pointing thro' window). White? I war- 
rant thee, my son, as the snow yonder on the very tip- 
top o' the mountain. 

Count. And yet to speak white truth, my good old 
mother, 
I have seen it like the snow on the moraine. 

Elisabetta. How can your lordship say so ? There, 
my lord ! iLays cloth. 

O my dear sou, be not unkind to me. 
And one word more. [Going— returns. 

Count {touching guitar). Good ! let it be but one. 

Elisabetta. Hath she returu'd thy love? 

Count. Not yet 1 

Elisabetta. And will she ? 



406 



THE FALCON. 



Count {looking at Lady Giovanna). I scarce believe 
it! 
. Eliaabetta. Shame upon lier then ! [Ej;;7. 

Count (4ngs). " Dead mountain flowers "— 

All well, my mii'se has broken 
The thread of my dead flowers, as she has broken 
My chiuii bowl. My memory is as dead. 

[Goes and rei)lace8 guitar. 
Strange that the words at home with me so long 
Should fly like bosom friends when needed most. 
So by your leave if you would hear the rest, 
The writing. 
Lady Giovanna {holding wreath towards him). There ! 
my lord, yon are a i)oet, 
And can you not imagine that the wreath, 
Set, as you say, so lightly on her head, 
Fell with her motion as she rose, and she, 
A girl,' a child, then but flfLecn, however 
Flutter'd or flatter'd by your notice of her, 
Was yet too bashful to return for it? 

Count Was it so indeed ? was it so ? was it so ? 
[Loans forward to take wreath, and to^tches Lady 
Giovanna's hand, rvhich she withdraws hastily; 
he planes wreath on cortier of chair. 
Lady Giovanna (with dignity). I did not say, my 
lord, that it was so ; 
I said you might imagine it was so. 

Enter Fit.irpo tcilh boiol of salad, which he places 
on table. 

Filippo. Here's a fine salad for my lady, for tho' we 
have been a soldier, and ridden by his lordship's side, 
and seen the red of the battle-field, yet are we now 
drill-sergeant to his lordship's lettuces, and profess to 
be great in green things and in garden-stnff. 

Lady Giovanna. I thank you, good Filippo. 

[Exit Fiuppo. 

Enter Ei.isabktta with bird on a dish which she places 
on table. 
Elisabetta {close to tabic). Here's a fine fowl for my 
lady ; I had scant time to do him in. I hope he be 
not underdone, for we be undone in the doing of him. 
Ijady Giovanna. I thank yon, my good nurse. 
Filippo {re-entering with plate of prunes). And here 
are fine fruits for my lady— prunes, my lady, from the 
tree that my lord himself planted here in the blossom 
of his boyhood— and so I, Filippo, being, with your 
ladyship's pardon, and as your ladyship knows, his 
lordship's own foster-brother, would commend them 
to your ladyship's most peculiar appreciation. 

[Pitts plate on table. 
Elisabetta. Filippo 1 
Lady Gioranna {Count leads her to table). Will you 

not eat with me, my lord? 
Count. I cannot, 

Not a morsel, not one morsel. I have broken 
My fast already. I will pledge you. Wine! 
Filippo, wine ! 

[Sits near table ; Filippo brings fla^k, fills the 
Count's goblet, then Lady Giovanna's ; Elisabetta 
stands at the back of Lady Giovanna's chair. 
Count. It is but thin and cold, 

Not like the vintase blowing round your castle. 
We lie too deep down in the shadow here. 
Your ladyship lives hiirher in the sun. 

[They pledge each other awrf drink. 
Lady Giovanna. If I might send you down a flask or 
two 
Of that same vintage? There is iron in it. 
It has been much commended as a medicine. 
I give it my sick son, and if yon be 
Not quite recover'd of your wound, the wine 
Might help yon. None has ever told me yet 
The story of y<iur battle and your wound. 

Filippo {coming for xeard). I can tell you, my lady, 
I can tell you. 



Elisabetta. Filippo ! will yoa take the word out of 
your master's own mouth ? 

Filiijpo. Was it there to take? Put it there, my 
lord. 

Count. Giovanna, my dear lady, in this same battle 
We had been beaten — they were ten to one. 
The trumpets of the tight had echo'd down, 
I and Filippo here had done our best. 
And, having passed unwounded from the field, 
Were seated sadly at a fountain side. 
Our horses grazing by us, when a troop. 
Laden with booty and with a flag of ours 
Ta'en in the figtit — 

Filippo. Ay, but we fought for it back, 

Anil kill'd— 

Elisabetta. Filippo ! 

Count. A troop of horse — 

Filippo. Five hundred ! 

Count. Say fifty ! 

Filippo. And we kill'd 'em by the score ! 

Elisabetta. Filippo ! 

Filippo. Well, well, well ! I bite my tongue. 

Count. We may have left their fifty less by five. 
However, staying not to count how many. 
But anger'd at their flaunting of our flag, 
W^e mounted, and we dashed into the heart of 'em. 
I wore the lady's chaplet round my neck ; 
It served me for a blessed rosary. 
I am sure that more than one brave fellow owed 
His death to the charm in it. 

Eli.wbetla. Hear that, my lady ! 

Count. I cannot tell how long we strove before 
Our horses fell beneath us: down we went 
Crush'd, hack'd at, trampled underfoot. The night. 
As some coki-manner'd friend may strangely do us 
The truest service, had a touch of frost 
That help'd to check the flowing of the blood. 
My last sight ere I swoou'd was one sweet face 
Crown'd with the wreath. That seem'd to come and 

They left us there for dead ! 

Elisabetta. Hear that, my lady I 

Filipjio. Ay, and I left two fingers there for dead. 
See, my lady I (Shoxoing his hand.) 

Lady Giovanna. I see, Filippo! 

Filippo. And I have small hope of the gentleman 
gout in my great toe. 

Lady Giovanna. And why, Filippo? 

[Smiling absently. 

Filippo. I left him there f(n' dead too ! 

Elisabi tta. She smiles at him — how hard the woman 
is! 
My lady, if your ladyship were not 
Too proud to look upon the garland, you 
Would find it staiu'd— 

Count {rising). Silence, Elisabetta! 

Elisabetta. Stain'd with the blood of the best heart 
that ever 
Beat for one woman. [Points to wreath on chair. 

Lady Giovanna (ri.sing slowly). I can eat no more ! 

Count. You have but trifled with our homely salad. 
But dallied with a single letiuce-leaf ; 
Not eaten anything. 

Lady Giovanna. Nay, nay, I cannot. 
You know, my lord, I told you I was troubled. 
My one child Florio lying still so sick, 
I bound myself, and by a solemn vow, 
That I would touch no flesh till he weie well 
Here, or else well in Heaven, where all is well. 

[Eliftabetta clears table if bird and salad : Filippo 
snatches up the plate of prunes and holds them to 
Lady Giovanna. 

Filippo. But the prunes, my lady, from the tree that 
his lordship — 

Lady Giovanna. Not now, Filippo. My lord Fed- 
erigo. 
Can I not speak with yon once more alojie? 

Count. You hear, Filippo? My good fellow, go 1 



THE FALCON. 



407 



Filippo. But the prunes that your lordship — 

Elisabetta. Filippo ! 

Count. Ay, prune our company of thine own and 

go! 
Elisabetta. Filippo ! 

Filippo (turnnig). Well, well ! the women ! [Exit. 

Count. And thou too leave us, my dear nurse, alone. 

Elisabetta {folding up cloth and going). And me 

too? Ay, the dear nnr!<e will leave you alone; but, 

for all that, she that has eaten the yolk is scarce like 

to swallow the shell. 

lTu7-n.s and curtmyx stijflii to La7>y Giovanna, then 
exit. Ladv Giovanna takes out diamond neck- 
lace from casket. 
Lady Giovanna. I have anger'd your good nurse: 
these old-world servants 
Are all but flesh and blood with those they serve. 
My lord, 1 have a present to return you, 
And afterwards a boon to crave of yon. 
Count. No, my most houor'd and long- worshipt 
lady. 
Poor Federigo degli Alberighi 
Takes nothing in return from you except 
Return of his aftectiou — can deny 
Nothing to you that you require of him. 
Lady Giovanna. Then 1 require you to take back 
your diamonds— iOffe/ring necklace. 

I doubt not they are yours. No other heart 
Of such magniticence in courresy 
Reats — out of heaven. They seem'd too rich a prize 
To trust with any messenger. I came 
In person to return them. [Count draws back. 

If the phrase 
" Return " displease you, we will say — exchange them 
For your — for your — 
Count {takes a step towards her and then back). For 

mine — and what of mine ? 
Lady Giovanna. Well, shall we say this wreath and 

your sweet rhymes ? 
Count But have you ever worn my diamonds? 
Ladi/ Giovanna. No ! 

For that would seem accepting of your love. 
I cannot brave my brother — but be sure 
That I shall never marry again, my lord '. 
Count. Sure? 
Lady Giovanna. Yes ! 

Count. Is this your brother's order? 

Lady Giovanna. No ! 

For he would marry me to the richest man 
In Florence ; but I think you know the saying — 
"Better a man without riches, than riches without a 
man." 
Count. A noble saying— and acted on would yield 
A nobler breed of men and women. Lady, 
I find you a shrewd bargainer. The wreath 
That once you wore outvalues twentyfold 
The diamonds that you never deign'd to wear. 
But lay them there for a moment ! 

[Points to table. Ladv Giovanna places necklace 
on table. 

And be you 
Qi'acious enough to let me know the boon 
By granting which, if aught be mine to grant, 
I should be made more happy than I hoped 
Ever to be again. 

Lady Giovanna. Then keep your wreath. 
But you will find me a shrewd bargainer still. 
I cannot keep }'our diamonds, for the gift 
I ask for, to my mind and at this present 
Outvalues all the jewels upon earth. 

Count. It should be love that thus outvalues all. 
You speak like love, and yet you love me not. 
I have nothing in this world but love for you. 
Lady Giovanna. Love? it is love, love for my dying 
boy. 
Moves me to ask it of yon. 

Count. What? my time? 

Is it my time ? Well, I can give my time 



To him that is a part of you, your son. 

Shall I return to the castle with you ? Shall I 

Sit by him, read'to him, tell him my tales. 

Sing him my songs? You know that I can touch 

The ghittern to some purpose. 

Lady Giovanna. No, not that ! 

I thank you heartily for that— and you, 
I doubt not from your nobleness of nature. 
Will pardon me for asking what I ask. 

Count Giovanna, dear Giovanna, I that once 
The wildest of the random youth of Florence 
Before I saw you— all my nobleness 
Of nature, as you deign to call if, draws 
From you, and from my constancy to you. 
No more, but speak. 

Lady Giovanna. I will. You know sick people, 
More specially sick children, have strange fancies. 
Strange longings; and to thwart them in their mood 
May work them grievous harm at times, may even 
Hasten their end. I would you had a sou ! 
It might be easier then for you to make 
Allowance for a mother— her— who comes 
To rob you of your one delight on earth. 
How often has my sick boy yearu'd for this ! 
I have put him ofl"as often ; but to-day 
I dared not — so much weaker, so much worse 
For last day's journey. I was weeping for him ; 
He gave me his hand : " I should be well again 
If the good Couut would give me—" 

Count. Give me. 

Lady Giovanna. His falcon. 

Count {starts back). My falcon ! 

Lady Giovanna. Yes, your falcon, Federigo I 

Count. Alas, I cannot ! 

Lady Giovanna. Cannot ? Even so ! 

I fear'd as much. O this unhappy world ! 
How shall I break it to him? how .<hail I tell him? 
The boy may die: more blessed were the rags 
Of some pale beggar-woman seeking alms 
For her sick son, if he were like to live. 
Than all my childless wealth, if mine must die. 
I was to blame— the love you said you bore me — 
My lord, we thank you for your entertainment, 

[ With a stately curtsey. 
And so return— Heaven help him !— to our son. 

[Turns. 

Count {rushes forward). Stay, stay, I am most un- 
lucky, most unhappy. 
You never had look'd in on me before. 
And when you came and dipt your sovereign head 
Thro' these low doors, you ask'd to eat with me. 
I had but emptiness to set before you. 
No not a draught of milk, no not an egs:. 
Nothing but my brave bird, my noble falcon, 
My comrade of the house, and of the field. 
She had to die for it— she died for you. 
Perhaps I thought with those of old, the nobler 
The victim was, the more acceptable 
Might be the sacrifice. I fear you scarce 
Will thank me for your entertainment now. 

Lady Giovanna {returning). I bear with him no 
longer. 

Count No, Madonna ! 

And he will have to bear with it as he may. 

Lady Giovanna. I break with him for ever! 

Count. . Yes, Giovanna, 

But he will keep his love to yon for ever! 

Lady Giovanna. You? you? not you ! My brother! 
my hard brother ! 
O Federigo, Federigo, I love yon ! 
Spite often thousand brothers, Federigo. 

[Falls at Ms feet. 
Count {impetuously). Why then the dying of my no- 
ble bird 
Hath served me better than her living— then 

[Takes diamonds from tah'r. 
These diamonds are both yours and mine— have won 
Their value again— beyond all markets— there 



4-08 



THE FALCON. 



I lay them for the first time round your neck. 

[Lays necklace round her neck. 
And then this chaplet— No more feudS, but peace, 
Peace and conciliation ! I will make 
Your brother love me. See, I tear away 
The leaves were darken'd by the battle — 

[Pulls leaves off and throws them down, 
— crown you 
Again with the same crown my Queen of Beauty. 

{Places wreath on her head. 



Rise— I could almost think that the dead garland 
Will break once more into the living blossom. 
Nay, nay, I pray you rise. 

[Baises her loith both hands. 
We two together 
Will help to heal your son— your son and mine— 
We shall do it— we shall do it. [Embraces her. 

The purpose of my being is accomplish'd, 
And I am happy ! 
Lady Giovanna. And I too, Federigo. 



DESPAIR. 409 



LATEST POEMS. 

DESPAIR: A DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE.* 

[A man and his wife having lost faith in a God, and hope of a life to come, and being utterly miserable in this, resolve to end them- 
I'es by drowning. The woman is drowned, but the man is rescued by a minister of the sect he had abandoned.] 



Is it you, that preach'd in the chapel there loolcing over the sand? 
Followed us too that night, and dogg'd us, and drew me to land ? 

What did I feel that night? Yon are curious. How should I tell? 
Does it matter so much what I felt? You rescued me— yet— was it well 
That you came unwish'd for, un call 'd, between me and the deep and my doom 
Three days since, three more dark days of the Godless gloom 
Of a life without sun, without health, without hope, without any delight 
In anything here upon earth? but ah God, that night, that night 
When the rolling eyes of the light-house there on the fatal neck 
Of laud running out into rock— they had saved many hundreds from wreck- 
Glared on our way toward death, I remember I thought as we past 
Does it matter how many they saved? we are all of us wreck'd at last— 
"Do you fear," and there came thro' the roar of the breaker a whisper, a breath 
"Fear? am I not with you? I am frighted at life not death." 

And the suns of the limitless Universe sparkled and shone in the sky, 
Flashing with tires as of God, but we knew that their light was a lie- 
Bright as with deathless hope — but, however they sparkled and shone. 
The dark little worlds running round them were worlds of woe like our own- 
No soul in the heaven above, no soul on the earth below, 
A fiery scroll written over with lamentation and woe. 

See, we were nursed in the dark night-fold of your fatalist creed. 

And we tnrn'd to the growing dawn, we had hoped for a dawn indeed, 

When the light of a Sun that was coming would scatter the ghosts of the Past, 

And the cramping creeds that had madden'd the peoples would vanish at last, 

And we broke away from the Christ, our human brother and friend. 

For He spoke, or it seem'd that He spoke, of a Hell without help, without end. 

Hoped for a dawn and it came, but the promise had faded away ; 

We had past from a cheerless night to the glare of a drearier day ; 

He is only a cloud and a smoke who was once a pillar of fire, 

The guess of a worm in the dust and the shadow of its desire — 

Of a worm as it writhes in a world of the weak trodden down by the strong, 

Of a dying worm in a world, all massacre, murder, and wrong. 

O we poor orphans of nothing — alone on that lonely shore — 
Born of the brainless Nature who knew not that which she bore! 
Trusting no longer that earthly flower would be heavenly fruit- 
Come from the brute, poor souls— no souls— and to die with the brute- 
Nay, but I am not claiming your pity: I know you of old- 
Small pity for those that have ranged from the narrow warmth of your fold, 
Where you bawl'd the dark side of your faith and a God of eternal rage. 
Till you flung us back on ourselves, and the human heart, and the Age. 

But pity— the Pagan held it a vice— was in her and in me, 

Helpless, taking the place of the pitying God that should be ! 

Pity for all that aches in the grasp of an idiot power. 

And pity for our own selves on an earth that bore not a flower ; 

Pity for all that suffers on land or in air or the deep. 

And pity for our own selves till we long'd for eternal sleep. 

" Lightly step over the sands ! the waters — you hear them call ! 
Life with its anguish, and horrors, and errors — away with it all !" 
And she laid her hand in my own— she was always loyal and sweet — 
Till the points of the foam in the dusk came playing about oui' feet. 
There was a strong sea-cui-rent would sweep us out to the main. 
"Ah God" tho' I felt as I spoke I was taking the name in vain— 

* Nineteenth Century, November, 1S81. 



410 DESPAIR. 

"Ah God" and we tnni'd to each other, we kiss'd, we embraced, she and I, 
Knowing the Love we were used to believe everlasting would die: 
We had read their know-nothing books and we lean'd to the darker side— 
Ah God, should we find Him, perhaps, perhaps, if we died, if we died? 
We never had found Him on earth— this earth is a fatherless Hell— 
"Dear Love, for ever and ever, for ever and ever farewell!" 
Never a cry so desolate, not since the world began ; 
Never a kiss so sad, no, not since the coming of man. 

But the blind wave cast me ashore, and yon s.aved me, a valueless life. 
Not a graiu of gratitude mine! You have parted the man from the wife. 
I am left alone on the laud, she is all alone in the sea, 
If a curse meant ought, I would curse you for not having let me be. 

Visions of youth— for my brain was drunk with the water, it seems; 

I had past into perfect quiet at length out of pleasant dreams, 

And the transient trouble of drowning — what was it when match'd with the pains 

Of the hellish heat of a wretched life rushing back thro' the veins? 

Why should I live? one son had forged on his father and fled, 
And if I believed in a God, I would thank him, the other is dead. 
And there was a baby-girl, that had never look'd on the light : 
Happiest she of us all, for she past from the night to the night. 

But the crime, if a crime, of her eldest-born, her glory, her boast. 

Struck hard at the tender heart of the mother, and broke it almost; 

Tho', name and fame dying out for ever in endless time, 

Does it matter so much whether crown'd for a virtue, or hang'd for a crime? 

And ruin'd by him, by him, I stood there, naked, amazed 

In a world of arrogant opulence, fear'd myself turning crazed. 

And I would not be mock'd in a madhouse! and she, the delicate wife. 

With a grief that could only be cured, if cured, by the surgeon's knife, — 

Why should we bear with an honr of torture, a moment of pain, 

If every man die for ever, if all his griefs are in vain, 

And the homeless planet at length will be wheel'd thro' the silence of space. 

Motherless evermore of an ever-vanishing race. 

When the worm shall have writhed its last, and its last brother-worm will have fled 

From the dead fossil skull that is left in the rocks of an earth that is dead? 

Have I crazed myself over their horrible iufldel writings? O yes, 

For these are the new dark ages, you see, of the popular press. 

When the bat comes out of his cave, and the owls are whooping at noon, 

And Donbt is the lord of this dunghill and crows to the sun and the moon. 

Till the Sun and the Moon of our science are both of them turn'd into blood. 

And Hope will have broken her heart, running after a shadow of good : 

For their knowing and know-nothing hooks are scatter'd from hand to hand— 

H'e have knelt in your know-all chapel too looking over the sand. 

What! I should call on that Infinite Love that has served us so well? 
Infliiite wickedness rather that made everlasting Hell, 

Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, and does what he will with his own ; 
Better our dead brute mother who never has heard us groan 1 

Hell? if the souls of men were immortal, as men have been told. 

The lecher would cleave to his lusts, and the miser would yearn for his gold. 

And so there were Hell for ever! but were there a God as you say, 

His Love would have power over Hell till it utterly vanish'd away. 

Ah yet— I have had some glimmer, at times, in my gloomiest woe, 

or a God behind all— after all— the great God for aught that I know ; 

But the God of Love and of Hell together— they cannot be thought ; 

If there be such a God, may the Great God curse him and bring him to nought ! 

Blasphemy! whose is the fault? is it mine? for why would you save 

A madman to vex you with wretched words, who is best in his grave? 

Blasphemy ! ay, why not, being damn'd beyond hope of grace? 

O would i were yonder with her, and away from your faith and your face! 

Blasphemy! true! I have scared you pale with my scandalous talk. 

But the blasphemy to my mind lies all in the way that you walk. 

Hence 1 she is gone! can I stay? can I breathe divorced from the Past? 
You needs must have good lynx-eyes if I do not escape you at last. 
Our orthodox coroner doubtless will find it a felo-de-se, 
And the stake and the cross-road, fool, if you will, does it matter to me? 



MIDNIGHT, JUNE 30, 1879.— "I'RATER AVE ATQUE VALE." 



411 



MIDNIGHT, JUNE 30, 1870.* 
I. 

MinNioiiT — ill no midsuinmei- tunc 

The breakers lash the shores: 
The cuckoo of a joyless June 

Is calllui; out-or-doors : 

And thou hast vanish'd from thine own 

To that which looks like rest, 
True brother, only to be known 

By those who love thee best. 

II. 

Midnight — and joyless June gone by, 

And from tlie deluged park 
The cuckoo of a worse July 

Is calling thro' the dark: 

But thou art silent under-ground, 
And o'er thee (streams the raiu. 

True poet, surely to be found 
Wheu Truth is found again. 

III. 

And, now to these unsummer'd skies 

The summer bird is still, 
Far off a phantom cuckoo cries 

From out a phautom hill ; 

And thro' this midnight breaks the sun 

Of sixty years away, 
The light of days when life begun. 

The days that seem to-day, 

When all my griefs were shared with thee, 
And all my hopes were thine— 

As all thou wert was one with me. 
May all thou art be mine ! 



EARLY SPRING.+ 

Onok more the Heavenly Power 

Makes all things new, 
And domes the red-plough'd hills 

With loving blue ; 
The blackbirds haVe their wills, 

The throstles too. 



Opens a door in Heaven ; 

From skies of ghiss 
A Jacob's-ladder falls 

Ou gree:iiiig grass. 
And o'er the mountain-walls 

Young angels pass. 

Before them fleets the shower. 

And burst the buds, 
And shine the level lands, 

And flash the floods; 
The stars are from their hands 

Flung thro' the woods ; 

The woods by living airs 

How freshly fanu'd, 
Light airs from where the deep. 

All down the sand, 
Is breathing in his sleep, 

Heard by the land ! 

O follow, leaping blood. 

The season's lure ! 
O heart, look dowu and ui), 

Serene, secure, 
Warm as the crocus-cup, 

Like suowdrops, pure ! 

Past, future, glimpse and fade 
Thro' some slight spell. 

Some gleam from yonder vale. 
Some far blue fell, 

And sympathies, how frail, 
In sound aud smell. 

Till, at thy chuckled note. 

Thou twinkling bird. 
The fairy fancies range. 

And, lightly stirr'd. 
Ring little bells of change 

From word to word. 

For now the Heavenly Power 
Makes all things new. 

And thaws the cold, aud fills 
The flower with dew ; 

The blackbirds have their wills, 
The poets too. 



"FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE."J 

Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione row ! 
So they row'd, and there we landed— "O venusta Sirmlo ! 
There to me tliro' ail the groves of olive in the summer j 
There beneath the Roman ruin where the purple flowers 
Came that "Ave atque Vale" of the Poet's hopeless woe, 
Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen-hundred years ago, 
"Frater Ave atque Vale"— as we wander'd to and fro 
Gazing at the Lydinn laughter of the Garda-lake below 
Sweet Caiiillus's all-but-island, olive-silvery Sirmio ! 



low. 



Prefaced to Sonnets by Charles Tennyson Tur 



t Youth's Companion, Dec, 1883. 



t Nineteenth Century, March, 1883. 



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